


Doppelganger

by Memoranda



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-08-22 21:42:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 168,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16605968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Memoranda/pseuds/Memoranda
Summary: Issa Pryce goes to school as she normally does. But that day will change her life forever when the Axis three walk in her class and kidnap her for no apparent reason. But the more she learns more about her favorite Hetalia characters, the hole she has dug herself deepens. Who knew there were ways to kill an entire nation?





	1. Hindsight

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, all! This is my first ao3 story

Thinking back, I realize I should have seen it coming. It was like the universe was sending me little hints all throughout the day. I should've stayed home; I shouldn't have gone to school today. But, like they say, hindsight is 20/20.

When I wake up today, everything seemed normal. It's Tuesday; I have four more days of school until the weekend, counting today. That's usually what I concentrate on, anyway, like pretty much any sane person. I just don't enjoy being in school. I'm a high school freshman. My mom says that the whole, "I'm literally the lowest of the low, the scum of the school, the bottom of the food chain" feeling I have is normal, but she reminds me not to overreact. "High school doesn't last forever, sweetheart," she tells me at breakfast, ruffling my already-mussed hair.

"But I really don't feel good," I plead. Something has been kind of off; there's a weird buzz in my ear, menacing, persistent. It makes me kind of dizzy. "My head hurts."

"Are you actually sick, or do you just think you are?" she questions patiently. Sitting next to me, Mom gives me a small, worried grimace. "Look, Issa, I know yesterday rattled you, but you can't let these attacks keep you from living life."

Yesterday, I had what I like to call a Grand Mal panic attack. I had to give a presentation in my Public Speaking class, which didn't go so well. Normally, I can manage my way through a speech with only a few hitches, but something was different yesterday. I can't put my finger on it, though. Once I started to stutter, which happens sometimes when I haven't planned what I'm going to say, I just kind of lost it.

I was very aware of my classmates watching me, judging me. I could just imagine them running off to their friends, gossiping about the poor mousy freshman who can't even present a project without stuttering and bursting into tears. My hands started to shake, and I dropped my notecards, and, before I knew it, I was hyperventilating.

In the middle of my speech, I just told my teacher dumbly that I was going to the bathroom, and then I fled the room. Luckily, my cell phone was in my pocket rather than in my bag, so I was able to call Mom and have her check me out so I could calm down.

I don't think this is related, though. Something is just... weird. But I can't make up a good enough excuse, so I just frown and say, "Okay...."

On the way to school, we hit just about every red light that we came across. We live in Washington DC, so that's a lot of stoplights. We're even stuck behind a commuter bus for a while; it's illegal to pass those when they're stopped, and they stop a lot. I am very nearly late for school. My little sister, Renae, is definitely going to be late, but she still goes to elementary school, and they're a lot laxer on late policies than at the high school.

On my walk from second-period to third-period, a shoulder strap on my backpack snaps. I didn't even know it was weak. As I plop in my unassigned seat, in the front closest to the door, I examine it. The stitching where the strap connected to the bag has torn. I suppose I can fix that, if I have some heavy-duty thread. But, for now, I guess I'll have to one-shoulder it for the rest of the day.

We have a substitute for this class. "If you have any nicknames you'd like to use instead of what's listed on the attendance sheet, let me know," she says happily. She then goes down the list until she gets to "Pryce, Isabella."

"I go by Issa," I offer.

"That's strange," she notes good-naturedly. "Are you sure you wouldn't like Izzy or Bella better?"

"I'm sure," I nod, trying not to shudder at those names. I don't know what I have against the nicknames; I suppose Izzy sounds too childish and Bella sounds... I don't know, formal? My dad always called me Issa, and it just stuck, I guess.

The ringing in my ears seems to only get louder as the day progresses. Finally, after sixth period, it stops, leaving an eerie silence over the hum of conversations littering the halls. I stick a finger in my ear and wiggle it, but it seems like the ringing is gone for good.

Someone behind me reaches out and touches my shoulder. I don't know if he was shuffling his feet against a carpet or what, but as soon as we make contact, an electric jolt shocks us both. I turn around to look at the person, and I frown.

For one thing, I have to look up at him. I'm 5'8", which is pretty tall even to fully-grown adults, I think. But this guy must be at least a head taller than me. He seems young; older than me, but still young. Mid-twenties, maybe. In that awkward "not a kid but also not an adult" phase. His hair is pale blond, and he's styled it back so that it lays flat on his head, an odd choice for someone of his age. It seems too professional, I think. He wears a long green coat, and a black messenger bag hangs by his waist. His feet are clad with thick boots; maybe they're steel-toed, but I don't know. There's an aura about him that seems...dignified. Maybe even royal. It's like he's in charge and not afraid to let everyone know. It's intimidating. And his eyes—a sharp blue, like two shards of ice staring accusingly back at me.

What gets me is that he looks an awful lot like Axis Powers Hetalia Germany, or, at least, what he might look like should he be real.

Looking around, I notice his two companions. If he's supposed to be Germany, then the other two are supposed to be Japan and Italy. The Italy even has that one curly strand.... Weird....

When we make eye contact, and he doesn't say anything, I get nervous. "Um...hi?" I manage. He still doesn't respond. "I gotta go to class; I'm gonna be late," I say, stepping away from him, pushing my glasses further up my nose.

His voice is deeper than I expected, and his words aren't in English: " _Chotto_ _matte_."

I guess I'm lucky that I'm taking Japanese as an elective, because I understand him. He asked me politely to wait.

I'm pretty pleased with myself; maybe he doesn't speak any English, and I just communicated with someone through a language barrier. What little Japanese I know has come in handy. It's an accomplishment, for sure. So, stupidly letting my guard down, I nod.

The Germany and the Japan are both just examining me, making slow, methodical circles around me. The Italy is friendlier. He jumps right up next to me, grabbing my hand and giving it an enthusiastic shake that lasts longer than what's considered polite. Then, pushing further into my personal space, he plants a kiss on my cheek.

I jump back in surprise. That's certainly not something that happens every day. I guess he's not from America, not used to the laid-back mannerisms we consider the norm. So, I forgive him for intruding, returning his grin with a small smile. "Nice to meet you, I—I guess," I manage, forgetting that he doesn't seem to speak English.

The blond's hand startles me as its fingers close around my chin, commanding my attention. As he stands closer to me than I would like, he reaches around my head and tugs the ponytail holder from my hair, letting it spill around my shoulders. My hair is a sort of dirty blonde, halfway between my mom's brown and my dad's blond. I stand still as he parts my hair differently than how I normally do it, quickly running his fingers through strands. Then he turns to his black-haired friend, and they talk. My skill level in Japanese started and ended with the simple phrase he commanded earlier, so I have no idea what they're doing.

The shrill ringing of the bell sounds. I grimace. "Ugh, I'm late—uh, _chikoku desu,_ " I inform them, backing away. The sea of students has thinned considerably, leaving the four of us basically alone.

I'm not truly unnerved until the blond takes a handful of my gray sweatshirt, preventing me from leaving. He starts to walk in the other direction, taking me with him. "I—I gotta go! _Chikoku desu_!" I insist, prying at his grip. "Am I saying it right? I'm late for class!"

The man shushes me, unfazed by my opposition. The Japanese man takes my elbow, helping steer me away. I notice another zap of static electricity when he touches me.

"Guys, c'mon—," I say, getting very nervous. "Let go— I gotta go—I can't go with you...." Before we turn the corner, I put my foot down, refusing to walk. "Seriously, I can't go with you!"

I'm starting to get very loud, which the blond doesn't want. He stops walking, pushing me against the wall. His free hand flies to his waist, and he pulls a gun from the back of his pants, pointing it at me.

I gasp, standing very still, not taking my eyes off the weapon. I've been on the business-side of a pistol before, and it didn't end well.

The man places his hand against my mouth, and he shushes me again. Then, he asks me if I understand. Shakily, I nod, just trying to get him to point that thing somewhere else.

I don't know if I'm in complete control of myself. Torn between fight and flight, I know that the smart thing to do is be a good little hostage and try to keep him from shooting me. But, despite common sense, I sink my teeth into the man's hand. I didn't hold back, so I assume it hurts. As soon as he recoils, I swing my backpack off my shoulder, letting centrifugal force help me slam it into him. I have quite a few big textbooks in there; if I had to guess, I'd say it weighs about ten pounds.

It doesn't seem like much, in all honesty, but it surprises him enough to lower the gun, and that's enough for me. I turn and bolt.

I don't get very far; the Japanese man is faster than I am. He pounces on me, sending both of us to the ground. I cry out, trying to squirm away from him. "No! Let go of me! _Stop_!"

He's quicker than the blond man—I don't even see him remove the knife from his belt before he has it pressed against my neck.

I wince and close my eyes, whimpering as I wait for a searing pain.

It doesn't come.

I open my eyes when I feel him touch my face, carefully covering my mouth with his index finger. He says something to me almost delicately. I recognize the word for "quiet." They obviously don't want me to cause a scene. This was supposed to be a quick, in-and-out grab, no muss, no fuss, and they don't want me to ruin that.

He lifts me up, careful not to remove the blade from my throat. The blond man is angry with me. I see him show his hand to his companion, letting him see the deep bite mark I left in his palm. The Japan lowers the knife, and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

I don't have time to do anything before the blond man grabs the back of my jacket and presses me face-first into the wall, holding me there. I didn't realize it, but I've already started crying, breathing starting to quicken. Helplessly, I catch the gaze of the friendly Italian man. He seems apprehensive, like he knew this was going to happen but he doesn't particularly enjoy watching it.

"Please," I call out to him.

He doesn't move.

The blond man's hands grab each of my wrists, and he forces them behind my back. Something sticky loops around my hands, rendering me incapable of using my arms. Duct tape. I fight against the bonds—I can't stand the restriction. I realize I'm babbling: "Stop, please, don't do this, please, _please_ — !"

A voice rings out suddenly. "Hey! What do you think you're doing?!" It's a security guard, one of a few who patrol the halls during classes, making sure no naughty students are roaming around without a pass.

" _Help_ ," I plead before the men can silence me.

I see the guard fumble for a gun holstered at his waist, but the blond man is quicker. He wraps his arm around my neck, and he holds his weapon against my head. A strange mixture of a sob and a gasp escapes me.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," the guard says, slowly moving his hands away from his gun. "It's okay—don't do anything stupid, okay? You don't have to do that. Just put it down; let her go...." He starts to reach for the small walkie-talkie on his shoulder, but, suddenly, there's a small click in my ear: the man pressed down the hammer. I whimper, starting to hyperventilate. "Okay, okay—no radio...."

The man starts to back up, dragging me with him. When the guard starts to follow, he presses the barrel of the gun against my temple, and the guard stops. He doesn't stop backing up until we turn the corner, disappearing from sight.

The blond lowers the gun, turning and walking faster. I try to stop moving, but it doesn't deter him. He wraps his arm around my waist, almost carrying me, ignoring the way I drag my feet against the tile. "Stop! Please, I—I can't— _please_!"

I've forgotten their command to be silent, but it doesn't seem to matter to them anymore: we've gone outside. We were on the third floor, so we have some flights of stairs to descend before we reach the parking lot. In the meantime, my voice has grown in intensity, and my struggling has gotten more violent. The man is carrying me now because I'm using my legs to kick instead of walk.

Between the flights leading from the second to first floor, my kicks hit a mark: the redhead. I'm just strong enough to push him off-balance at an inopportune time, and he topples down the stairs, shrieking as he hits every step.

This angers the man holding me. He drops me and quickly buries his fingers in a fistful of my hair, yanking me along with him as he hurries down to check on his companion. I howl, no choice but to follow him. He keeps my hair painfully taut until he's sure that the redhead is okay, and he releases me. Without warning, he turns on me, bringing the back of his hand sharply across my face.

I forgot about the Japanese man until he jumps in between us, preventing the blond from smacking me again. The latter turns, huffing. The black-haired man gently inspects my face, assessing any damage. I must be okay because he leaves me alone quickly. He almost knocked my glasses off.

The German grabs me again, dragging me down the last flight of stairs, and he rushes me towards a black van idling in the parking lot. The Japanese man opens the back doors, and he grabs my arm and helps force me towards it. "No! Please, don't make me! _Stop_!" I curl my legs up, making the men lift me. As a last resort, I scream, letting my voice act as a high-pitched weapon. The blond frowns, but he doesn't react other than that.

My siren breaks off into a strangled gasp when he effortlessly throws me, and I land harshly on the floor of the van. I immediately spring to my feet, running back towards the exit. But he slams the doors, boxing me in. That doesn't stop me from ramming my shoulder into the barrier, though. I need to get out of here! I need to go home!

The vehicle jerks to life, throwing me off-balance. It races from the parking lot, merging harshly into oncoming traffic. The driver, the blond man, seems to have no regard for the laws of the road—or just laws in general, apparently.

" _Please_ ," I beg, fighting to be heard over the roar of the engine. " _Please_ , let me go! I—I won't tell anyone about this, just _please_ , I need to go _home_!"

They aren't listening. I scream again in frustration and terror, which definitely gets their attention. " _Let me go_!"

The Japanese man turns around in his seat, seeming to be shuffling for something in a bag. Yelling isn't going to work, I decide. Switching tactics, I wildly struggle against my restraints. If I could just break free—!

Why are they doing this?! This doesn't seem like a random attack. They could have easily taken anyone else, anyone who wouldn't have fought as much as I did. But they were looking for me, and they made sure it was me before they grabbed me. What do they want from me?! I'm nothing special! I'm not rich or famous or related to anyone who is, so it makes no sense that they singled me out.

And where are we going?! I know this route—it takes us right out of DC. I don't want to go on a road trip with these guys. And what are they going to do when we get there? They didn't have any problems with waving deadly weapons in my face, but would they actually use them? It seems like they went through a lot of trouble to get to me, so maybe they won't kill me.... But as long as I'm alive, they can do what they want to me.... These days, I can almost certainly expect rape, a thought that inspires me to struggle harder against the tape. They sure did a number with this; it's so tight around my wrists that it hurts to move.

I let out a strangled yelp when someone grabs me from behind, yanks me towards the middle row of seats. "Get off!" I shriek.

One of his hands tightens across my mouth. I waste no time sinking my teeth into his palm, but it doesn't seem to bother him. His other hand brushes my loose hair back and out of the way. I cry out in pain as something pricks the side of my neck.

A cold sensation seeps from the pinched spot on my neck, and the world is suddenly blurry. He's trying to knock me out. I scream against his hand and thrash, trying to get away. But I'm suddenly very weak. My eyelids are heavy, and I can't make my arms or legs move. "No—no, no, no—no, _please_ ," I manage desperately against his hand.

He's not listening to me. Gently, he lays my limp body on the carpet of the van, on my side so I'm not lying on my bound hands. He tugs my glasses off my face so they don't dig into my nose. It's all I can do to keep my eyes open. I want to keep pleading, hoping fruitlessly that they'll finally listen to me, but my voice isn't working anymore. The only thing I can do is sob brokenly, whimpering into the carpet.

The man—I think it's the Japanese man, but it's not like I care right now—surprises me. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, gently petting me. I can't tell if he's trying to be comforting or if he's just admiring me in a sexual manner, but I hate him either way. He can't just do this to me and expect me to accept him just like that.

But it's not like my opinion matters. They've made that blatantly clear.

 

When I wake, the soft, sweet scent of vanilla is the first thing I register. The moment I spend enjoying it dissipates quickly, though: my next sensation is pain. My senses are assaulted with freezing air, the temperature deeply penetrating my skin, like I've just been dunked in a tank of cold water. My head—oh, my aching head. It throbs in response to the change in temperature, or maybe just in response to consciousness. It hurts to think; maybe that's why I can't make myself move? No, I should be able to.... Why can't I move my arms?

A yelp escapes me when someone grasps my arms, drags me across soft carpet. I make an attempt to open my eyes, but it's too bright. I groan pitifully, trying to turn away from the force that grabbed at me. But it responds, arms curling around my back and under my knees, drawing me into an embrace.

With a gasp, I remember my situation. The men—the van—the sore spot on my neck—the _gun_ —

I try to voice my protest, but, even to my own ears, my words are garbled and delirious. Panic shoots through me, and I struggle against the man holding me. Despite the consequences, I open my eyes. The light is too white to be sunlight; it's artificial, a floodlight, like in football stadiums. Its harsh rays burn into my vision, and I blink rapidly, trying to see. My thrashing increases in intensity as my fear settles, and I howl protests. I realize my mouth is taped shut, distorting my words, but not my voice.

I stop screeching so much when he puts me down, lowering my feet to a hard and bumpy surface—gravel. The man keeps his grip on my arms, keeping me from running away. I stand by him, confused and terrified, trying to clear my aching head. My eyes adjust to the light, and I notice it's nighttime, but I can't see much else: they took my glasses, and I'm incredibly nearsighted.

The man starts walking. I try to walk with him, I really try, but my legs give out on me. Exasperated, he drops me, and I land on the rough ground. The snow seeps through my jeans, chilling me further. I need a moment to catch my breath, which is harder than it seems when I can only breathe through my nose. On the ground, with the cold numbing my legs, I stop to try to calm myself. Snowflakes land softly on my eyelashes. In the grating cold as I fight my panic, I take comfort in the weather. Looking past the lights, I see the flurry drifting down from the sky. I've always loved watching it snow.

My moment of peace ends: he grabs my arms and yanks me up. My knees are still like jelly, but my feet barely touch the ground, anyway. Still disoriented, I look around frantically, seeing only overwhelming brightness and tall, intimidating silhouettes surrounding me.

I'm still trying to see and comprehend my surroundings when heat washes over me, a welcomed sensation. I register voices over the ringing in my ears, and the intensity of the lights fades. What fuzzy images I see blur further, and I wince as pain shoots through my temple.

Other voices, a louder one, grabs my attention. "Miss Pryce, how do you feel?" The words, though slightly distorted, are in English, and, incredulous, I search for the source. There's a man standing in front of me and my captor, who's still supporting me as I wobble on uncertain legs. He's white, with brown hair and a knobby nose. His clothes are light brown and professional. When I don't respond to him, he grabs my chin, and I'm blind again as he shines a light into my eyes. I groan weakly in protest, recoiling. A light test, to check the dilation and contraction of my pupils. He lets go of me, and I hear his voice again, but in a different language. The man holding me answers him, and he starts leading me away.

For a long time, I just stumble in step with him. I don't know where we are, but I think it's some sort of military base: I see a lot of soldiers. This place is big, but kind of cramped in the corridors, and all the soldiers spring to the side when they see us coming, saluting my captor. What's going on? They see a young girl, tied and gagged and crying her eyes out, being marched along these halls by someone much bigger than her, and they show respect to the one forcing her around? What are they thinking? I've cried out for help to a few of them, and not one has attempted to move in my behalf. After a while, I give up hoping for their aid.

At last, the man stops. I've regained some strength in my legs, so I can stand without his help. He opens a door, and he pushes me in. He drops me into a spinny chair, and he moves my arms over the back of it. Bemusedly, I look around. I still can't see much without my glasses, but I can tell we're in a fairly small room with a mirror covering one full side, like a ballet studio. The Japanese guy is behind me talking with the blonde, and I think the redhead is around here somewhere, but I'm not sure.

The blond comes back, and he winds a neon orange rope around my lower torso and arms, pulling it taut so it tightens around my scrawny body like a snake. Before knotting it, he kneels and loops it a few times around my ankles so I can't kick.

I really don't like all this restriction. I mean, after lightly testing the strength of my bonds, it's obvious that I'm stuck here. Can't move my legs, can't move my arms, can't lean forward.... The only appendage I can freely move is my head, but I don't really need to; I can see everything behind me through the mirror in front of me. The mirror doesn't help my disabled depth perception much, though.... While my head is still screaming in pain, the rest of my senses are numb. Tears still leak from my eyes, but I can't even try to stop myself from showing emotion.

I can tell it's the Japanese man who now stands behind me because I can see the ebony of his hair and the white of his shirt. He puts his hand on my shoulder like he's trying to comfort me, but I still flinch and close my eyes. The man puts his hand under my chin and has me look up, and he tucks my bangs behind my ear. Standing in front of me now, he takes a picture of me with a fancy-looking camera.

My stomach seems to drop. He must be about to put that picture on the black market to sell me to the highest bidder. I start crying harder, breathing as hard as I can through my snotty nose.

He shushes me gently, like he's trying to calm me down, and he sets the camera down. When he returns, he holds a hairbrush. Just a normal hairbrush. And he starts brushing my hair. It takes a few minutes because of how I struggled earlier. Eventually, he turns around to put down the brush and pick up something else. Why is he doing this? Did they just kidnap me so they can brush my hair?

I'm lost in my attempt to fathom their actions. The man smooths my hair up and back into a ponytail, and I honestly don't pay that much attention. It's how I had my hair earlier; but I don't understand why he would just try to make it neater.

Just when I expect him to put my hair into a band, he uses the sharp scissors in his hand to remove the majority of its length.

The choppy remains of my locks fall in different lengths around my face, and I can't hold back a sound of protest behind my gag. Before, I was just tired and scared, but now I'm angry. The man is holding a good eight inches of my hair like it's nothing to him. He doesn't have the right to violate me like this. Who does he think he is?! Who do all of these people think they are?!

The man starts cutting even more, but I decide he's done enough. Shaking my head, I voice my dissent in muffled objection. Of course, there's not much I can do. I won't let that stop me, though; as he continues trying to get me to keep still, I shake my head and thrash against my restraints. I'm angry! I'm angry that he thinks he can just do what he wants with me! I'm angry that they tied me up! I'm angry that they abducted me!

In an effort to get away from his hand, I throw my weight to the left, toppling my chair. This probably did more harm to me than good, but I only realize this as I lie in pain, as I was unable to break my fall in any way. My shoulder took most of the damage, and so did my elbow. I'm unable to move; there's nothing more I can do to deter them.

The blonde man grabs me and rights my chair. Then, bending so our eyes are level, he clamps his hand on my chin so I can't look away. He's probably threatening me, but since I don't understand him, I don't take it to heart.

I jerk my head out of his grasp in a show of defiance. He does not appreciate this. Almost immediately, he slaps me. I cry out in pain, and he grabs a handful of my shortened hair, and he hits me again.

The Japanese man springs to action, forcing himself between us. He makes the other move away from me, scolding him. It's a small comfort to know that beating me isn't in the plan. That's why the guy's yelling at him; I'm not supposed to be hurt, I guess.

Their argument is long over by the time I gather enough courage to lift my head. The Japanese man has been waiting for me to move, being patient enough for me to do it out of my own will. Like he did at school, when the German hit me in the stairwell, he gently has me tilt my head so he can see the damage done. I'll probably get a black eye, that's for sure. Before standing back up, he looks me seriously in the eyes. Sincerely and politely, he tells me in Japanese that he's sorry. I can't believe the nerve of him! He's _sorry_?!

I don't know how to respond. I still can't because of the gag and such, but I don't nod or anything. I don't want to accept his apology. I just want to go home. So, I look down and away, neutralizing any emotion in my expression.

I have an inkling that the guy knows I didn't forgive him, but I also don't think he cares all that much. He gets up and walks behind me again. This time, I behave myself when he continues cutting my hair. I'm so scared. I'm scared, and I'm defeated, and I just want to go home. That's all I want. I just want to go home.

The man must be finished; he puts the scissors down. Using his fingers, he brushes out my short hair. He returns with my glasses; I had wondered where they went. The world comes back into focus as he carefully perches them on my face. The first thing I really see is my own reflection. I don't look like myself.

Why have they done this? I almost feel like these men are trying to erase me, make me something I'm not. But why?! What do they want with me?

He grabs the camera again and snaps another picture of me. Before and after pics?

The Japanese man kneels and touches my hands, startling me. Ignoring my flinch, he cuts through the duct tape around my wrists. Then, he unties the rope confining me to the chair. He even takes a moment to unwind the coil around me so I can get up.

The only thing I want to do is to run away, but I'm scared of the consequences. I don't even move until the Japanese man kind of just waves me up. I can stand without collapsing, but I'm still kind of woozy. Shakily, I look towards the man and slowly reach to take the tape off my mouth, silently asking permission to do so. He nods, getting my message and encouraging me to peel it away. I don't know what to do with the tape, so I stick it onto my pants leg.

I touch my hair, rubbing the back of my head. I'm not used to how its cut ends gently prickle against my hand. For the next few moments, I just try to bury my feelings about this incident.

I'm looking down, so when the German man marches up to me and grabs my wrist, I gasp and backtrack a few paces. The Japanese man's stern voice questions the guy, who responds bluntly, taking a rather defensive tone. The former sighs, but says the Japanese equivalent of "Whatever." Now, with permission, he grabs a pair of handcuffs from his messenger bag. Snatching my other hand, he wraps the metal bracelets around my wrists, clicking them tighter and tighter until all sides press into my skin. I don't protest; I don't dare fight back. At least my hands are in front of me this time.

He grabs the hood of my gray sweatshirt, dragging me out the door of this room. The other stays behind to sweep up the strands of my hair on the floor where I was. I know I should be paying attention to where he's taking me, but I just disassociate, walking silently with him.

We reach a door. Releasing my arm, the blond fishes around in his pocket, pulls out a set of keys, and unlocks the it. He opens it and pushes me in.

The room is fairly small, about the same size as the hair-cutting room. This one has a couch pushed up against the wall to the left. A circular rug decorates the wooden floor, and its navy blue pattern is the same as the throw pillows on the couch. A table and a pair of chairs stand against the wall on the right. There's a filing cabinet next to it, and, next to that, a mini-fridge. On the wall with the door, there stands a bookshelf.

The blond man grabs my wrists before I can get too far away, and he unlocks my handcuffs. My first instinct is to thank him, but I manage to hold it back. I'm not going to be polite to him, not after what he's already done.

A different man shows up behind him. It's the old guy I saw before, the one that shined a light in my eyes. "Good evening," he says professionally. He has a thick German accent.

I think he's waiting for a response. I can't believe he's acting so nonchalant about this! "Uh," I manage.

"Have a seat," he continues, pointing at the couch. "We're waiting on one more guest, and then we'll explain what's happening."

"Wait, wait, wait," I cut in, pressing a hand to my head. " _Guest_? Is that what you—? Do you know what they just _did_?!"

"I am aware," he answers mildly.

"They—! Oh my God, they—! I—I can't _believe—a_ _guest_?!" I stutter, so angry I can't make words come out correctly. "What the _hell_ is going on?!"

"An explanation will come later. In the meantime, please relax. Help yourself to anything in here." Before I can respond, they turn around and close the door behind them, and I hear the soft click of the lock.

I rush at the door. "Hey! Wait!" I pound my fist against the wood, shouting through the crack between it and the frame. "What the hell?! _Come back_!" Furious, I jiggle the doorknob, still beating on the door. "Come back! WHAT DO YOU _WANT_ FROM ME?!"

They don't seem to be coming back. Frustrated and scared, I punch the door one more time, letting out a cry of anguish. I stalk over to the couch and grab a pillow, swinging it around as if aiming it at someone, cursing the men loudly. The pillow slips from my fingers, and it flies across the room, hitting the wall and falling to the floor silently.

I grab the other one, and, dropping on the couch, I bring it to my face and scream into it, letting the fabric and down suffocate my voice.

When I raise my head to breathe, I'm crying again, both in terror and rage. They kidnap me, drug me, and chop off most of my hair, and then they have the nerve, the audacity to act like gracious hosts, like I had simply waltzed in here of my own volition!

I bury my face in the pillow again, curling up into myself. I bring my feet up on the couch, leaning against the armrest. They can't just do this!

And yet... they have. And I can't do anything about it....

 

 

It takes maybe an hour of on-and-off crying before I decide that I'm bored. So, I get up, going to examine the bookshelf. The books are in English, surprisingly. That man seemed to be the only one who speaks English. Another thing—the books are all YA fiction: Harry Potter, Twilight, the Hunger Games, Percy Jackson.... This is not the vibe I was getting from the architecture and overall order of this place. Which leads me to assume that this room was meant for me. Or, at least, an English-speaking teenager. I would imagine there would be the classics, or maybe mostly nonfiction things like atlases or dictionaries.

I don't like that they're trying to reach out to me. I mean, I would rather read a novel than a dictionary.... But I don't like that they're trying to make me comfortable. If they're trying to treat me like a guest, why did they abduct me? It makes no sense!

Shaking my head, I turn to inspect the mini-fridge. It's filled with water bottles. I consider taking one; I cried a lot, so I could be getting dehydrated. But I stop—they just drugged me. I don't want to let them do it again. Inspecting one, I see that the seal is unbroken; so I guess they didn't put anything in here. Still, I'm not going to eat or drink anything they give me, so I replace the bottle and close the door.

Then I turn to the filing cabinet. Surprisingly, they don't contain files. They hold various art supplies: paper—both lined and unlined—pencils—both colored and regular—markers, et cetera. Again—why do they have these if not to accommodate a kid or teen? This seems like a military base; I'm pretty sure they don't encourage artsy, out-of-the-box creativity when they're trying to turn people into soldiers.

Even though I'm pissed off, I am still bored. So I reluctantly pull out a notebook and a pen. I sit at the table, flipping it open and uncapping the pen. I should make a list—things I know, things I can assume, things that I don't know.

I know that they used lethal weapons, so I can assume they're willing to use violence if they need to, but I don't know if they want to kill me. I know they're going to bring in someone else, so I can assume they're going to kidnap them, but I don't know who it will be. I know they were looking for me, so I can assume they chose me for a reason, but I don't know why.

After a minute or more of brainstorming, I realize that there are more mysteries than certainties. I don't know where I am. I don't know what they want from me. I don't know what time it is. I don't know who these people are. I don't know how many people are in here. I don't know if they're going to be violent, if this cushy front is misleading. The list goes on and on.

I can't think of anything else to write, so I just start making lines. Not doodles, per se; just lines.

The door opens with a click, and I gasp, jumping to my feet. The blond man walks in, carrying a limp body over his shoulder. He drops them on the couch, and he takes a moment to undo the restraints around their wrists. The older man is here, too. "We'll wait about one more hour so he can wake up and recuperate. Thank you for your patience."

Too nonplussed to answer, I cautiously watch the blond man from a safe distance until he leaves, barely even glancing my way. They leave, locking the exit behind them.

When I'm sure they're gone, I warily creep up to the unconscious boy, careful not to disturb him. He looks about my age, but I can't be sure; I've never been good at judging age. His hair is blond, darker than the German man's, but lighter than mine. I can't tell what color his eyes are, but his eyebrows are much darker than his hair color, making me wonder if it's dyed. He's wearing a plain green hoodie and jeans, with white socks and black tennis shoes. I can see a little bump on his neck; that must be where they stuck him with the needle. He looks peaceful.... I almost don't want him to wake up to this nightmare.

But he does about ten minutes later. He furrows his brows, slowly raising his hand to rub at his eyes. He groans, stretching. I feel bad for him; he's acting like he's waking up from a nap, not from a drug-induced kidnapping.

Something seems to click with the boy; he gasps, snapping open his eyes. I don't think he's even fully conscious before he launches himself off the couch, stumbling blindly around the room, breathing heavily.

Concerned, I follow him. I gently touch his arm. "Hey, you should sit down...," I tell him softly.

He whips around to face me, and he trips over his own feet, landing harshly on the floor. "Who are you?!" he manages, pointing at me accusingly. "Where are we?! Wh—What do you want?!" His voice, slurred with sleep, has a British accent. He has slight lisp caused by braces. The brackets have blue bands on them.

"Hey—it's okay, calm down," I soothe. "I'm Issa. I don't know where we are; they got me, too...."

"You're American," he points out, not letting his guard down. "I was just in London; don't tell me I'm in America.... How long was I out?"

"I—I don't know, man," I say, joining him on the ground without infringing on his personal space. "I've only been awake for, like, two hours; maybe three, I dunno.... Only one guy is talking in English, so I don't think we're in America or England."

"...Oh...." He shifts, sitting cross-legged, warily observing his surroundings. "H—how did I get here?"

"Someone carried you," I inform him. I cross my arms, sadly watching him rub fatigue from his eyes. He notices the door and rushes towards it. "Locked," I warn him. He still grabs the handle and shakes it, stopping when it doesn't admit him.

The boy glances around the room again to confirm that the door is the only exit, and he redoubles his effort to get out, getting more and more desperate.

"That's not going to help," I tell him sadly.

He hits the door with his palm a few times. "Hey! _Hey_! Let us _out_!"

"Stop! You need to ca—."

He interrupts me. "No—no, don't tell me to _calm down!_ "

"Listen— listen to me." He doesn't, so I step forward and put my hand firmly on his shoulder. " _Listen_. You can go ahead and throw a fit. Get it all out of your system. But after that, I need you to calm down and help me think, okay?"

So he does. I sit on the couch and try to give him space as he paces in agitation, pulling on his hair and hyperventilating. Eventually, he flops next to me and curls into himself, and he's crying. I was trying to be brave for him, trying to be level-headed, but when I see his raw emotion, I can't help but cry, too.

Eventually, he stops. "What's your name?"

"Issa." I use my nickname; we've bonded in our misery, so I don't feel the need to be formal.

"Josh," he says. "I'd say it's nice to meet you, but considering the circumstances...."

I nod, understanding. "Okay. We need to think. I—I don't think this is random. I think they were looking specifically for me. And I can't for the life of me imagine what they want. Not ransom, probably. I'm not related to anyone rich or famous. And, as far as I know, I haven't done anything illegal or offensive to them...."

Josh nods. "That makes sense. They—." He breaks off, looking suddenly very pale. "They were waiting for me. They were waiting inside my house."

"Oh my God," I whisper sympathetically, genuinely taken aback. They were only waiting in my school; we were both taken from a place we're supposed to feel safe in, but it's much, much worse that they were waiting inside his home.

"Oh my God, my family," he whimpers. "I—they were home, I think. Th—they must've— they m—might've—."

"Are you sure they were home?"

He doesn't nod or shake his head. "I—I had just gotten back—I was out with my friends, and it was late, and— maybe they weren't, but—." He slaps his hand over his eyes. "Oh, God— there was a van parked outside, and my friend even _said_ — I mean, he was _joking_ — he couldn't have known— but he— !"

"...Made a joke about how there were probably strangers in your house," I guess.

"He said they were in there murdering everyone, and that I was next." Josh is hyperventilating again. He stands up to pace again, turns green, and sits down again quickly. "I'm gonna be sick."

I jump up. The only thing I can thick of that's close enough to a bucket is one of the filing cabinet drawers, so I yank one off its tracks and dump its contents on the floor, and I set it in front of Josh.

For a few moments, he doesn't move, and I wonder if the nausea has passed. Then, grasping the edges of my offering, he throws up. I hate the smell of bile, but there's nothing I can do, so I put my hand on his back and try to comfort him.

When he seems done, I get up and open the mini-fridge. The seal on the water bottle definitely breaks when I open it, so they must not have done anything to it, so I hand it off to the trembling boy still bent over the drawer. I wouldn't offer it to him if he didn't need it.

He rinses his mouth and spits that out as well. I don't know how comfortable he is with my touch, but the only thing I can think of to comfort him is a hug. He doesn't jerk away, so I take that as a good sign.

I want to say something, but I'm at a loss for words. It's not okay; I don't know if his family is okay or not; I can't promise that we're not going to be killed, either.

Josh turns so he can return my hug, and he sobs into my shoulder. "My family," he moans.

"I'm sorry," I murmur. I let him cry for a few more minutes, and then I pull away and make him look at me. "Listen, Josh—I'm sorry, I'm _so_ sorry, and I swear I'm not trying to be callous, but you need to focus, okay? We're in very real danger right now. You have to focus on you."

His breath catches as he sighs and lowers his head. "I—I know."

"Good." I rub his shoulder. After a few more moments, I confess my relief— "I—I'm kinda glad you're a boy, actually."

He wipes his eyes. "Why would it matter that I'm—. Oh. Right."

"Yeah, _oh_. You seriously didn't consider it?"

"I didn't have time, honestly. I walked through the door and they ambushed me, and—." He trails off, frowning. "I don't remember."

"Syringe," I offer, pointing at my throat.

Josh runs his fingers over the side of his neck until he feels the slight bump of the needle mark. "Oh. Ow."

"If it helps, I—I don't think they'll kill us," I tell him. "They spent too much effort making sure they grabbed the right people, and if they wanted us dead, they'd have done it already."

"So they have a plan for us," he notices grimly.

I nod, unconsciously shivering. "Th—that's why I—I'm sc—scared," I admit. "Whatever their plan is—actually, it may not involve hurting us—one of the guys made sure I was okay every time he—...." I let myself trail off, and I touch my cheek.

"He hit you?"

"Yeah," I breathe. "T—to be honest, I kind of understand it.... If it were me, I wouldn't want my captive to fight back, either... teach 'em a lesson, and all that...."

Josh touches my hand, and his words are gentle. "Did you learn?"

I shake my head without thinking about it. "No. I'm not going to let them do what they want with me."

"But he hurt you," he tries.

I shake my head again. "No— I'm not stupid— I know what guys like them do to girls like me." I'm crying again. "And, whatever they're doing— _maybe_ it doesn't involve hurting us, _maybe_. But what about after they're done? Or during, even? Th—they might want to _relieve_ some _stress_...! And wh—who better than a couple of kids they've already abducted?"

"Issa...."

"They're so much stronger than me," I cry. "I couldn't stop them—wouldn't be able to—...." It's my turn to descend into hysterics. "They're going to."

"You don't know that."

"I do! Think about it! I have _no idea_  what else they'd want from me! Or you! You're not exempt from this, either!" I hold my hands over my eyes and try fruitlessly to calm down. "We're _toys_ to them. Maybe they _will_ hurt both of us like that—they cut my hair—they wanted me to look like a boy...."

"Shh," Josh says, pulling me in for a hug, which I allow.

"And there's so many of them," I continue, trying to keep my voice coherent enough so he knows the extent of the danger we're in. "Dozens. All men, I think."

"Dozens," he echoes weakly.

"Soldiers," I explain. "Some sort of military base. Everyone wearing uniforms."

"Did you see what country?"

I shake my head against his shoulder. "No. I was disoriented and barely awake." Shivering, I add, "And you know how strict and regulated a solder's life is —they might want to _let loose_."

"...This is a completely valid reason to be frightened," he tells me after a while. "But didn't you say there was a guy trying to keep you from getting hurt?"

I nod. "But I don't know why. Maybe they're going to _sell_ us, and they don't want any _blemishes_."

"...Well... I guess.... I guess we're not going to know until they come back, are we...?"

I take a deep breath and sit up. "Okay. Okay, I need to think about this. They were in my school; they could've grabbed anyone they wanted, but they went after _me_. And they definitely wanted _you_. They must've done their research. Found out where you live and everything. That means that they don't want just any two blonde kids, right?"

"Makes sense," he agrees.

"So that doesn't c— _completely_ rule out r—rape. It's still a very real possibility. But I think they want us alive."

"That's good," he says, but he doesn't look reassured.

"Okay." I hold my hands to my temples, trying to be strong. "Here's what we're going to do. We're going to stick together, and we're going to watch each other's back. We're going to wait for an opening, and then we're going to take it and get the hell out of here. If we need to fight, we have to fight dirty. Go for the face, neck, and groin—we won't be able to use brute force against them, but I'm not above cheap defensive tactics."

"I can't fight," Josh tells me, his voice trembling.

"You can, and if it comes down to it, you will," I say firmly. "This is life or death; you have to be ready to go all out."

"I—I c— _can't_ ," he repeats more urgently. "I _can't_ , I'll freeze."

"Okay," I concede, unwilling to argue with him. "I'll do the fighting for now."

"No, don't." He grabs my hand. "Don't, _please_ , don't make them angry!"

I shake my head. "I have to. I can't let them do what they want with me."

"We can wait it out," he suggests desperately. "Wait until they—."

"Until they let us go?" I finish, shaking my head again. "I don't think they will. They wanted us specifically. They're going to get what they want from us, and then we're not important anymore, and I don't know what they'll do then. We have to escape."

Josh is about to respond, but he stops when the door clicks open.

 

 

It's the blond man. He doesn't wait for us to come to him; he just marches up to us. I feel Josh's hand tremble, and I take half a step in front of him, glaring at the advancing threat.

"Which one's that?" Josh hisses at me.

"The asshole," I whisper. "I mean, they're all assholes, but this one's the _mean_ one. Didn't you see them?"

"No, it was dark."

The stranger grabs both of us by our hoods, and I let go of Josh to squirm in his grasp. He adjusts his grip to grab my hair, and I yelp, scratching at his hand.

"Stop! Please, stop!" Josh cries, reaching behind his head to grasp the man's wrist.

"That's not going to work—he doesn't speak English," I manage through gritted teeth, still struggling.

The man lets go of Josh to focus on me. In one swift move, he throws me backwards by the handful of hair, slamming me into the wall. Before I can recover, he's there, his fist clenched around the front of my shirt. He jerks me forward and pushes me back so I hit the wall again. My head collides with the drywall, and I see spots. "Run!" I manage, not making it obvious that I'm talking to Josh so that the man keeps looking at me.

"Y—you said to stay together!" he protests.

"Well, now I'm saying go!" I lash out, bringing my fist against his ear. I don't think it hurts him, but he spins to throw me across the hall. I don't move for a moment, trying to bury the pain. The man looms over me, and, giving me a look of contemptuous disgust, he puts his foot on my chest, pinning me to the floor.

"Stop!" Josh wails, coming forward to grab the man's arm. "We can talk about this! You don't have to— ."

His words die in a cry of pain as our captor slaps him, the force of the blow knocking him off-balance and sending him to the ground. "Don't hit him!" I shriek, but I can't do much from my position under his boot.

Someone else speaks sharply, and I hear running footsteps, and the man steps off of me. His friends, the Japanese man, the redhead, and the older man rush towards us, scolding the blond. I sit up and try to control my breathing. I'm too shocked to cry, but I hear Josh's weak sobs. I wonder if his braces cut the inside of his mouth.

"Miss Pryce, Mr. Davies, are you alright?" the old guy asks, bending over me and trying to help me stand.

" _No_!" I shriek at him. "No, I'm _not_ okay! What kind of _bullsh_ —."

"Language," he interrupts, taking my upper arm and pulling me to my feet. Before I can do much else, he fastens handcuffs around my wrists.

"Hey!" I protest, trying to yank myself away from him.

"Stop fighting," he tells me. "Calm down, and we'll explain."

" _Calm down_?!" I repeat, slightly hysterical. "No! I don't want your _explanation_! Get these things off me! Let us go!"

"If you don't stop shouting, we're going to gag you," he warns.

"Yeah, I bet you would, you fuc—"

"Language."

"— _perverts_!" I finish, still struggling in his grasp.

He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and grabs my face, squeezing my jaw so my mouth opens. I try to bite him as he stuffs the cloth into my mouth. I see in his eyes that he would like very much to hit me, but he doesn't. His grip on my arm has turned painful, though.

Through my panic, I see that the Japanese man has handcuffed Josh, as well, and he nudges him left. When the English-speaker tries to do the same to me, I stand my ground, planting my feet and leaning in the opposite direction.

The blond man has an easy fix for that. He wraps his arm around me, keeping my arms pinned to my sides so I can't take out the gag. Since he's the muscle of the group, he has no problem half-carrying me down the hall. I scream the whole way, thrashing against him.

He lets me go as soon as he steps in a small room. There's one table in here with six chairs, one pitcher of water, and six empty glasses. I flee to the farthest corner and rip the cloth out of my mouth, breathing heavily and close to tears again. When they push Josh in, he joins me. "Issa, please, _please_ , stop making them mad—they'll—." His whispered plea dies as the four men enter and sit.

"Please have a seat," the old guy invites, gesturing at the two chairs on our side of the table.

Josh does, but I don't, still seething at the injustice of it all. "Please sit, Issa—please, you're making it worse."

I shouldn't lash out at him, but my nerves are so strained that I do. "Whose side are you on?!" I hiss menacingly at him.

The old man ignores my disobedience. "My name is General Victor Hughes. I'm here to translate for you. This is Ludwig Beilschmidt, Feliciano Vargas, and Kiku Honda," he introduces, gesturing to each man in turn.

I let out a bitter laugh. "Is that a joke?"

The General looks politely confused. "No. How would their names be a joke?"

"Really? You don't—." I pinch the bridge of my nose, letting my other hand dangle from its chain. "Never mind. This is crazy enough."

"Would you like some water?" he offers, pouring each of us a glass before waiting for our answers.

"What do you want from us?" Josh blurts desperately.

"You are here for an experiment," he explains. "During which we will test your strengths and weaknesses, among other of your traits."

Josh frowns. "You're—... gonna put us in situations we're uncomfortable in to test what we'll do," he sums up.

The General translates for the men. The blond man grunts and answers. "That's fairly accurate."

"Why?" he pleads.

"You're special," he says simply.

"How? Wh—wh—what makes us different from anybody else?"

Hughes asks them. "I'm afraid that's classified information."

" _Classified_?!" I echo incredulously. "You target us, and you won't even tell us _why_?!"

"Yes."

I shake my head, my lip curling into a snarl. "You're _evil_. You're _evil_ , and you're _disgusting_ , and you're going to _pay_."

When translated, "Ludwig" snorts in amusement. "Adorable."

"Don't _patronize_ me," I growl.

Josh holds up his hands in a placating gesture. "If— if you wanted to know all these things about us, y— you could've just asked, and we might've cooperated! You didn't have to kidnap us!"

Ludwig shrugs, and my fury swells again. I fight it down, trying to stay calm enough to study them. My eyes land on the redhead sitting at the end of the table. Feliciano, they called him. He keeps his head down, not daring to look at any of us.

"What does he think?" I ask, nodding at him.

When acknowledged, Feliciano jumps. Before he can answer, Ludwig answers for him. "He's okay with this."

"I wasn't asking _you_. I was asking _him_." When the General translates again, I keep my eyes locked on the weak link of the group, staring at him accusingly.

He stutters an answer. "He says he's okay with this," Hughes says.

"You don't look okay with this," I point out.

Feliciano doesn't match my gaze.

"Coward." My voice is calm but harsh.

Ludwig doesn't appreciate this. He yells at me, but I don't care.

"All of you," I continue, venom laced in every word. "Using brute force and deadly weapons and restraints against us, two _kids_. Preying on the weak." I shake my head again. "Cowards."

Josh clears his throat nervously to interrupt before they can get too angry at me. "Wh—where are we?"

"A facility just outside Berlin, Germany."

That seems doable in Josh's case, since he was already in Europe. But I'm skeptical. "You didn't put me on a plane."

"How would you know?"

I don't. I'm still pretty sure that I wasn't out for that long, but I have no proof, so I drop it.

Something catches my eye: a gold band on the General's finger. "You're married," I notice.

He looks down at his finger for a second, and then almost defensively folds his hands so the ring is hidden. "You're changing the subject."

"No kids?" I press, shifting my weight from one leg to the other. He doesn't seem to know what to say, and he looks almost helplessly at the three men. It would be easier for him to just say yes or no, so I'm assuming that it's complicated. His hesitation is just too easy for me to read. Maybe he or his wife is sterile. Maybe he was supposed to have kids, but she miscarried, or something. Maybe something happened. Maybe I can use this to my advantage. "You wouldn't be okay with this if you had children of your own."

"Let's leave my personal life out of this," he responds at last.

"Let's leave my personal life out of this!" I snap, temper flaring again. "You guys have no right to keep us here! This is illegal. Pretty much everything they've done so far is illegal. What, like, two counts of attempted murder and two counts of kidnapping? Assault with a deadly weapon— breaking and entering— battery. And you—their accomplice."

"Miss Pryce, this is my job."

"Like it matters?!" I respond angrily. "No court is gonna let you off the hook just because this is your job! Which, by the way, is where I'm headed as soon as I get out of here!"

"You're not going anywhere," Hughes answers, frustration rising. "Not for quite a while, certainly."

I don't know what to say, so I just scowl and shake my head, horrified. "Incredible," I manage at last. "It's incredible how heinous all of you are."

Hughes translates. They just shrug.

I sigh and finally take a seat next to Josh, leaning back in the chair. There's a tense moment of silence. "So, what happened?" I inquire dully.

"What do you mean?"

"To your kid." I lean forward and put my elbows on the table, looking him in the eyes. I want to subconsciously take control of this situation; all I have to do is seem confident. I won't just stay a quiet little hostage; I can't. I need to leave.

The General's eyes are a light brown. As my question processes, I see them darken. Nevertheless, he answers. "She died."

"How?"

His face is stony as he answers, an unwavering air of professionalism about him. "Drunk driver."

"How did you feel?"

He sits up straight, folding his hands on the table. "This isn't about me, Miss Pryce."

A thought occurs to me. "How do you know my name? I didn't tell you."

Hughes talks to the men. In answer, Ludwig reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out two manila folders. He tosses one at Josh, and the other at me.

The label on the side reads "Isabella Nicole Pryce," my full name. The first page is my report card with a small print of my yearbook photo paperclipped to the top left corner. The next is a copy of my birth certificate. The next few pages I skip because they're written entirely in Japanese characters. Notes about me, perhaps?

That isn't the scary part. The scary part is the last section of the folder, clipped together neatly. They're pictures. Of me. But I'm never looking at the camera; I'm getting in Mom's car; sitting in class; walking my dog; frowning in the camera's general direction; lying unconscious in the back of a van with my arms secured behind my back; crying and looking disoriented while tied to a chair; sitting in the same chair with a red face and considerably shorter hair.

Josh voices what I realize. "You've been stalking us."

"Yes," they reply.

"Why?" Next to me, he trembles with a mixture of rage and terror.

Kiku answers through the General. "We wanted to be absolutely sure that you had the characteristics we desired."

Anger getting the best of me, I take the first couple pages and rip them. I try to do the same with the pictures, but they stop me, yanking the papers away from me. "Don't do that."

"You have no right to keep us here. Take us home."

"This is your home now, Miss Pryce," the General answers as he and Ludwig pick up the papers and return them to their file. "You'd better get used to it."

Ludwig takes both of the files back and returns them to his bag. He says something, and Hughes translates. "In a few moments, we'll show you to your rooms."

"No, actually," I interrupt. "In a few moments, you'll get these things off us," I raise my hands slightly to draw attention to the cuffs, "and then you'll let us go."

Hughes sighs. "Miss Pryce, unless you start to behave yourself, things are only going to get worse for you."

"I just want to go home."

"This is your home now," he repeats.

"No, it's not," I answer. My voice is quiet but murderous. "This will _never_ be my home."

Hughes tells the men about my statement. Ludwig answers with the General's voice, "Unfortunately, you have no power here. Our word is law; there's nothing you can do to stop us."

I want to lash out at him, but he's right—I'm helpless. They're stronger than me; they're faster than me; they're smarter than me. I'm pathetic compared to them. Slowly, my snarl disappears, and I'm silent as I comprehend how hopeless I am.

No one says anything for a minute. I clear my throat. "Speaking of power," I speak out at last. "Something doesn't add up here."

"And what would that be?"

"How old are you?" When Hughes gives me a flat look, I add, "Just—humor me."

"Fifty-three."

"Now, how old are they?" I jerk my head towards them. "Twenty? Twenty-five? At least three decades younger than you, and you're a General. Why are you taking orders from them?"

The General translates. For some reason, the guys start to look nervous; panicky, almost. Why?

Ludwig rises, and he marches around to our side of the table. We both jump up, but he flat-out ignores Josh, shoving past him.

"What?" I demand. "What did I do?!" He just yells at me, advancing. "You stay the hell away from me," I warn him, but he doesn't seem to care.

I resort to drastic measures, using my resources. I grab the untouched glass of water sitting on the table, and I splash the cold liquid in his face.

There's a second where he's too shocked at my boldness to react. Then, his expression twists in rage, and his fury seems to block his original goal of keeping me relatively unhurt. Faster than I can blink, he lashes out.

Ignoring the cacophony of voices behind him, Ludwig hits me in the face. My mouth suddenly tastes like blood. I'm already in the corner, so I can't back up any farther. Wheezing, I hold up my arms, trying to get him to stop.

He suddenly wraps his fingers around my neck. I'm able to manage one last shallow gasp before he constricts, choking me.

In his blinding anger, he smashes me into the wall, and he lifts me up so my feet leave the ground. Panicking, I kick at him and try to loosen his grasp, but it's no use; he's stronger than me.

The voices no longer register over the pounding of blood in my ears, and black spots cloud my vision. He's going to kill me. My eyes flood with tears and overflow down my face. This is it; he's going to kill me. He's going to kill me.

Somehow, they manage to make him drop me, and I land hard on the ground, gasping and sputtering. Kiku starts yelling at my attacker, leaving Hughes to deal with me as I crawl doggedly away. "Miss Pryce, are you okay? Look at me, Miss Pryce. Isabella, look at me. I need you to look at me. Isabella, look at me."

In the hysteria of being strangled, the only thing I know is that Hughes isn't on my side. " _Stop_!" I scream hoarsely at him, lashing out in self-defense. "Leave me _alone_!"

Someone grabs me from behind, and I get ready to attack him, but I stop—it's Josh. "Hey, hey, hey, it's okay. Shh, it's okay. You're okay. Shh, shhh." He puts his cuffed hands over my head to hug me, and I accept him, bawling violently into his shoulder, hands pressed against my forehead. My nose drips blood down onto my wrists and sleeves.

Behind me, Hughes fumbles with unlocking Josh's handcuffs. "Can you get her up?" he asks quietly.

"Y—yeah," he stutters. "Okay, you gotta get up now...." I really don't want to stand, but I'm too scared to say no to anyone. So, shaking like a leaf, I allow him to help me up.

The first thing I see when I stand is my assailant. In their argument, Ludwig turns to glare at me. I flinch back, retreating into the corner despite Josh's attempt at comfort. Kiku decides that Ludwig's presence isn't helping, so he shoos him out of the room.

Feliciano must have fled during the struggle, and he returns now, holding a first-aid kit. Kiku gives him a word of praise, and then the redhead comes over to me and tries to take my hand. I yank it away, backpedaling again.

I'm not afraid of Feliciano; he's obviously not the ringleader, and he does seem rather opposed to this whole kidnapping thing. Plus, he's making an effort to comfort me, which I'm kind of confused about. There's a certain line you cross when you push someone down a flight of stairs, but he seems to genuinely like me. I don't quite trust him yet, but he doesn't scare me.

But I can't say the same about Kiku, who advances, medical kit in hand. He has also tried to be kind, but I came as close to death by his knife as I did by Ludwig's gun. Not to mention the fact that he drugged me. So, as he tries to come closer, I backtrack.

Josh's hand keeps me from going too far. I'm breathing shallowly, desperately shaking my head and trying to get away. "It's okay," Josh tells me, struggling to keep me in check. "He's just going to help. Issa, he's not going to hurt you...."

I continue to resist, and Kiku and Hughes converse. Turning to me, "Miss Pryce, you need to calm down."

"No," I manage, shaking my head. "Leave me alone! Please, just—just go away! Leave me alone!" Hughes just keeps trying to quiet my protests, telling me over and over again to calm down. I just cover my eyes and shake my head, breaths coming as sharp, tense sobs.

Josh moves in front of me, hands on my shoulders. "It's okay," he says softly. "Here—make your breathing match mine." Looking me in the eyes, he breathes slowly and deeply. I can't for a few moments; then, I gradually manage to stop hyperventilating. "It's okay," he says. "It's okay."

Hughes has me sit on the edge of the table, which I do very reluctantly. Eyes clenched shut, I'm still breathing rather quickly as Kiku stands in my personal space, gently prodding at my face. He says something quietly to the General, who hovers in the background. "Your nose isn't broken," he informs me. I nod in answer, unable to speak.

I flinch as Kiku pushes a tissue into my hand and has me apply pressure to my bleeding nose. Almost as an afterthought, he frees me from my handcuffs.

His hands are cold on my chin as he lifts it gently, exposing my neck. I know he's only trying to help, but when I feel his fingers on my throat, I panic. Leaning backwards, I get my foot up and kick Kiku in the chest. He stumbles back, a little surprised at my display of aggression when I seemed calm for a second.

Hughes turns to lecture me, but before he can say anything, I manage hoarsely, " _No_."

"Miss Pryce," he starts, looking almost sorry for me.

"I—I'm _done_ ," I state firmly, still ready to kick anyone should he come close enough. "Just leave me alone."

Kiku discusses this with the General. After about a minute, "Are you able to breathe correctly?"

"Yes," I confirm. While it hurts, I can breathe, but I'm still slightly hyperventilating.

"Then there must not be anything wrong." Kiku closes the first-aid kit and leaves it on the table. "If you want, we can give you some painkillers."

" _No_ ," I answer decisively. He's drugged me once, and I won't let him do it again.

"Try not to speak," he instructs. "Your vocal chords are going to swell. Follow us, please." I shakily stand, still clutching Josh's hand. We follow Kiku, Feliciano, and Hughes as they lead us out of the room.

We've been walking for about a minute before Josh whispers, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I breathe back, though I'm not. I've stopped crying, but my breathing is still ragged.

"Why'd he get so mad at you?" Josh asks, squeezing my hand. "I mean—before you dumped water on him, you said something about their age, and he got really pissed off, but why?"

"Th—they're hiding something," I answer quietly. "If I just knew what it was, I—I could use it against them—maybe if I could—"

He interrupts me. "He almost killed you because you had an idea. Just—don't give him a reason to actually—...y'know...." When I glance up, he looks back at me with green eyes that seem thoroughly concerned for my wellbeing. I look back down quickly, nodding in agreement to his statement.

My nose has stopped bleeding when they stop us at the end of a hall up a couple floors from where we started. The last door is a red one; to its left is a blue one. Kiku pulls out a ring of keys and unlocks both of them.

"Miss Pryce," Hughes says, "that one's yours. And Mr. Davies, that's yours." He points at the red door and then the blue one.

I exchange a glance with Josh, and neither of us moves. "No, thanks," he answers, a little shakily.

Kiku sighs as he realizes we're not obeying. "Don't make this difficult."

"You could just not have to deal with us at all," Josh suggests innocently, tightening his grip on my hand.

They converse for a moment. Apparently, they agreed to grab one of us and yank us apart. Hughes wraps his arm around my stomach, stretching to grasp my extended wrist. Kiku pretty much just picks Josh up. I grab Josh's hand with both of mine. I can't be alone right now.

Feliciano sees this as an opportunity to bond with me. Ducking so my arms are around his neck, he embraces me, lifting me in enthusiasm.

I feel a pang of déjà vu; being carried; fear; sadness; and the man's unmistakable aroma of Italian herbs and bittersweet coffee.

I'm so surprised that I relax for a moment in his arms. The other two jump at the opportunity to separate us. Kiku tosses Josh in the room behind the blue door, ignoring his resentful shout of dissent.

I realize what I let happen. In two swift moves, I knee Feliciano between the legs and punch him in the face. I want to attack him more, but Hughes and Kiku stop me, grabbing my arms and steering me towards the red door's room.

"Wait," I cry, pushing on the frame of the door to prevent myself from being locked in. " _Wait_!"

They don't wait. Overpowering me, they shove me into the room, and the door slams and locks behind me.

I get up and launch myself at the barrier. "Let me out!" I bawl, pounding my fist on the door. "Please, let me out! I need to go home! Please, I just—." They've walked away. There's no use shouting at an empty hallway. Pressing my palms into my forehead, I lean against the door and whimper. "Please....I just want to go home...."

I remain there for a few moments, trying to compose myself. Finally, I gather the strength to turn around. Directly across from the door, there's a window, and I rush to it. It has a bay windowsill. Kneeling on it, my little shred of hope crumbles: it's just one pane of glass. There's no way to open it. Even if I could, I can't escape that way: I'm about five stories above the ground.

I sit on the sill and observe my room. It's almost symmetrical, split right down the middle. There's a bed and a dresser on each side. However, close to the front door, one side has a table with a couple of chairs, and the other has a couch. It's almost like they put effort into making a color scheme and sticking to it; everywhere, from the bedspreads, the curtains, the couch, and the wallpaper are decorated with yellow, green, and brown stripes. I don't like it.

There's a door, a different one from the one through which I entered. I turn the handle, and it admits me. After flicking on a light switch, I see that it's a bathroom. Upon further inspection, it's fully stocked with pairs of toothbrushes, hairbrushes, sticks of deodorant, and other toiletries. Pairs, I notice.

I look in the mirror. My face is flushed in a combination of my emotional outbursts and Ludwig's blows. Also, there's a bit of dried blood from my nose to my chin from when he punched me. Leaning over the sink, I use my hands to collect water and clean my face.

For a second, I just stop and observe my reflection. It's amazing how different I look with short hair. It gives me a rather masculine look, I think. I'm bitter because I was trying to grow it out.

I use the hand towel hanging off a peg on the wall to dry my face. For a second, I just stand there, breathing in its fragrance. Something clicks: this smells like the detergent Mom uses. This smells like home.

I think about Mom. Surely she knows by now. I don't know what time it is; there isn't a clock in this room, and they kept saying we're in Germany. That means we would have had to gotten to an airport, flown about eight hours, and acquired a van that looked exactly like the one in which we started. So, what time is it back home?

How did Mom find out? Did she hear about it at work, or did she drive to the high school just to witness the hysteria that inevitably still hangs in the crowd? She would look around for me, getting more and more nervous until her fears are confirmed—the student that the gunmen abducted was Isabella Pryce, her eldest daughter.

And Renae. She's almost five years younger than me, which puts her in 4th grade. She's nine; still at the elementary school. They were probably put on lockdown, as well as the middle school, as a precaution. But after the threat passed, they had to have let the kids go home. Mom usually picks Renae up. What would she think when Mom didn't show up for a really long time? What are they doing right now? I don't think my company is really prevalent most of the time because I'm always sitting quietly on the couch playing Pokémon, or something; I don't think I'll be missed much, actually.

No....Mom loves me, and Renae loves me. They'll definitely be feeling my absence. I need to stop thinking like that....

For a moment, I just look at the soft, light brown towel in my shaky hands. To my family, I might as well be dead. For all they know, I've been raped, tortured, and slowly, agonizingly killed until all that's left of me is a blank corpse with staring eyes. For all they know, they'll find out that, tomorrow, my body has been fished from the ocean. For all they know, I'm gone forever.

And, for all I know, I am just that.

They didn't say how long they were keeping us. Hughes said I wasn't going anywhere for a long time. How long does he mean? A week? A month? A year? Staying here for one more minute feels like an eternity.

I put down the towel and resume my inspection of my living quarters. As soon as I step out of the bathroom, I notice the cameras, one mounted firmly in each corner. As creepy as that is, I have to be thankful that at least there are no cameras in the bathroom.

I consider trying to disable them. Walking under one to inspect it, I see a couple wires I could yank. But, before I attempt to break it, I realize that this isn't a good idea. They put these here to watch me, and if I disassemble them, they'll just come down here and fix them. Maybe they'll even do something to me to make sure I don't touch them again.

So I discard that idea, backing towards the center of the room. There's not much else to discover....

Oh—the dressers. I open the one on the same wall as the bathroom. At a first glance, it's just simple stuff-white shirts, socks, and even underwear. It looks like we get a uniform: a navy blue jumpsuit. There's a fleece jacket, too, for colder weather. I pick up a shirt and unfold it, and it's my size. In fact, all of these clothes are my size; even the underwear. How did they get this information? Shaking my head and stuffing the shirt back in the drawer, I decide I don't want to know.

Sitting on the floor, I open the bottommost drawer. The only thing in it is a brown leather jacket with black fluff around the collar. I pick it up and unfold it. There's a circled star on the front left side, and on the back is the number 50. It's familiar....

With a gasp, I drop it and scramble back. That's _America's_ jacket.

I shoot a glance at the cameras, a little embarrassed at my reaction to it. I pick the garment up again as if to observe it further. For a minute, I just stare blankly at it, dumbfounded. This can't be happening; what do they think they're doing? Why would they put a replica of a stupid anime character's coat in here? This brings me back to wonder whether or not my three actually are Germany, Japan, and Italy....

But these men are nothing like the silly, lovable characters in the anime. The characters would never do something as violent and heartless as this. Japan is one of my favorite characters.... When I think of him, I think of that episode when he hid in his room for, like, 200 years. I think of that awkward guy who likes salt too much and builds miniaturized version of submarines in several different colors. He's a little bit shy, but he's sweet and down-to-earth, and that man lurking somewhere in this building is nothing like him.

And that goes double for "Ludwig Beilschmidt." Yeah; Germany's a little bit stern. I get that. He yells, he attacks England, and he blows stuff up. But beyond that, Germany is just a complete dork. In the cartoon, he makes a genuine effort to understand and bond with Italy. We see things through his commentary, mostly. He loves dogs. And, didn't he spend, like, an entire episode picking dandelions, or something? Germany is this endearing, soft persona that is the complete opposite of "Ludwig Beilschmidt."

The only one who even remotely fits the personality of his allotted character is Feliciano. They're both airheaded, kind, people-persons. It's like everyone is his buddy; he's just automatically friends with everyone he meets, whether he or she likes it or not. And, trust me, I don't. I certainly do not like it that this guy wants to be my friend. I mean, I suppose it's better than him not being my friend and joining the others in beating me up, but he's more of a hindrance than a help. Which, I guess, explains Italy, too....

I don't want to think about this anymore. Crumpling the jacket, I shove it back in the drawer and shut it. Getting back up, I examine the other dresser. It's just like the first one, but the clothes are all smaller. This one has the navy blue jumpsuit, as well; that must be what they want us to wear while they're "testing" us. But these clothes are all a few sizes smaller than me.... Am I going to have a roommate?

A thought occurs to me: that must be why they separated Josh and me. This is the girls' room, and his is the boys' room. He might be getting a roommate, too.... I mean, I guess I'm okay with sharing a room; it's just that this means they're going to go out and abduct her, too. I don't want them to hurt anyone else....

In this one's bottommost drawer, there's a red, long-sleeved garment trimmed with gold. It's China's clothes, the Mandarin jacket thing.

With a sinking feeling in my gut, I realize I know what my roommate is going to look like. Rather, I know who my roommate's gonna look like.

This must be why they took us. I've already subconsciously made this connection: Josh looks like England, right down to the bushy eyebrows. I suppose I'm supposed to look like America. Maybe that's why they cut my hair—his hair is this short.

Shutting the drawer, I stand back up. How many others are they going to kidnap?

The silence in the room is broken only by the thumping of my frightened heart in my ribcage and my shaky, uneven breaths. I don't know what to do. It's horrible; with my imagination, I'll drive myself insane before they even return to check on me. They've left me alone with my thoughts, and it's terrifying. I picture thousands upon thousands of different ways they can destroy my life, both metaphorically and actually. They could keep me here forever, forcing me to live my life as their lab rat. They could dismember me. They could invent the most painful death known to mankind by experimenting it on me. Psychological torture. Physical torture. Disfigurement, abuse, torment. There are so many ways they can obliterate me and my entire pathetic existence.

I sit on the closest bed, covering my face and leaning forward so my head is between my knees. This is awful; this is _so_ awful. For a while, I'm just sitting there, trembling; eventually, though, the waterworks start again.

 

 

I don't know how long I just cry; it's a long time, though. When my tears finally subside, I've gotten comfortable by claiming a pillow and burying my face in it. As I lie on the bed on my stomach, all I can think about is how scared I am, how desperately I need someone to save me, how badly I want to go home.

After about an hour, I hear a loud curse word emanating from the left corner. Lifting my head, I check that no one's there. Taking my pillow with me, I stand and cautiously go to inspect it. The corner has no people, but a vent.

"Hello?" I call unsteadily.

"Issa?" the voice answers.

I recognize him, dashing towards the wall to kneel by the vent. "Josh!"

"Hey!" he greets me. "Hi. A—are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. What about you?"

"I'm okay."

"What happened?"

"Oh—uh," he stops and kind of chuckles. "I got mad. Kicked a chair, which hurt more than I thought it would."

"I didn't know the walls were this thin," I muse. "The vent helps, I guess."

"Yeah." He pauses for a moment. "Are there cameras in your room, too?"

"Yeah."

"Then they can probably hear everything we're saying...."

"I don't care," I decide. "They already know that I hate them."

Josh is silent for a moment. "...So, what have you been doing?"

"Crying, mostly," I answer truthfully.

"Yeah, me, too," he says. "I hate this...."

"Mmhmm," I agree glumly. I adjust my position to lean against the wall, holding the pillow to my chest.

We don't say anything for a while. "...This is weird, but...I feel like I've seen these guys before.... Everyone except the General, I mean...."

I sigh, unwilling to think about my Hetalia theory. "Well. They've been stalking us. I suppose we should've seen them around." We should have seen them around. We should have noticed them. Maybe then we wouldn't be in this mess.

"No, not like that...." He goes on mumbling about how he thinks he recognizes them from somewhere else.

"...Me, too," I admit reluctantly.

"It seems silly, but, uh," he laughs a little bit. "They remind me of characters from this one show I watch."

Dumbfounded, I ask, "Hetalia?"

"Yeah...." He's silent for a while. "Isn't this weird, though?" he asks. "I honestly don't think I was out for that long; I just can't believe we're in Germany...."

"I know," I sympathize. None of this makes sense, and I just feel completely and utterly helpless in a way I never have before. "Maybe they drugged us. Maybe we're just hallucinating. Maybe this is all just a dream, and we'll wake up somewhere over the rainbow."

"Nah," he replies, and his voice gets softer, "the bruises on your neck kinda rule all that out...."

"Well, I splashed him," I muse, running my hand over my throat; it's still tender. I can breathe fine, but it definitely feels like I've been strangled. "I suppose I was asking for it.... Thanks, by the way," I add, a thought occurring to me. "For helping me back there."

"Oh. Oh, yeah, it's—it's cool. It's whatever," he dismisses.

It's not whatever. It is very much not whatever. When I was freaking out back there, I was still a danger to myself. While Hughes and Kiku seemed to feel a little bit bad about me almost being murdered, I'm still just a test subject to them. If I didn't calm down, who knows that they would've done to me?

"So, uh," Josh speaks up, interrupting my thoughts, "what do we do now?"

"I don't know," I answer truthfully. "We wait, I guess."

And for the next few hours, that's just what we do.

 

 

 


	2. Insolence

A while ago, I decided to conduct a little experiment. They're watching me closely through the cameras. I've been in here for at least four hours, and for a while in that time period, I locked myself in the bathroom because it's the only part of my room without cameras. I was in there for maybe twenty minutes, just sitting against the door, when the door outside opened. It was Hughes. He asked me what I was doing, and I said I was just sitting in there, and with a grumpy little sigh, he ordered me to stay where they could see me. 

So, I've decided to test my limits. What exactly can and can't I do before they come running down here to stop me? I know I can't stay in the bathroom with the door shut not making any noise for a long period of time. Since the incident with Hughes, I've tried pulling down the curtains over the bay window and scattering the pillows, covers, and sheets from both the beds around the room. They didn't come for either of those, so, I just kind of started making a fort with the table and chairs and all the blankets and pillows I could use. 

My fort is against the back wall of the room, just under the bay window. I moved the table in front of it and used the chairs to hold up the blankets as an entrance. The sheets I used as the covering, making a veil under which I hide myself. I brought both the duvets in the fort as comfort and insulation, and I took only one pillow in there; the rest I stuffed in the holes the sheets made, kind of like a door. 

So here I am in my little sanctuary, cocooned in blankets and hiding from reality. I feel like I'm seven again, safe in my room. After building a blanket fort, I would always go and get Renae, who was barely able to walk, and Mom would always follow us as we toddled as fast as we could to my room. We'd go in, and Mom would peek in the entryway and ask permission to come in too. We'd say no, that no adults are allowed in here. Mom would offer snacks as payment, and we'd consider that and then agree, and she'd come back with apple slices and Ritz crackers.  

I smile to myself at the memory, but it slowly falls off. I pull the blankets over my head. Maybe I'll suffocate myself and that'll be that. 

The front door opens. "Miss Pryce," Hughes's voice calls. I don't answer him. "Miss Pryce, come out from under there."

"No," I reply. 

He sighs quietly, and his footsteps come closer. A sliver of light appears as he removes the pillows from under the chairs and crouches on the ground to look in. "Come on," he persuades.

I respond rudely. But, in this situation, I'm not going to apologize for foul language. 

"Look, it's very late. The sooner you start to behave yourself, the sooner I can leave."

With his words, my anger flares, and I raise myself onto my elbows and take the blanket off my face. "Right. Because I would hate to keep you somewhere you don't want to be." And with that, I turn so my back is to him and flick the duvet back over my head.

Hughes doesn't answer. He takes both of the chairs in either hand and moves them aside, scattering the pillows and disrupting the sheets. "Don't," I object, although my anger has disappeared to be replaced with fatigue.

"You're going to have to adjust to the time difference sooner or later," he points out, starting to move the table. "You might as well start now."

"I was planning on sleeping until you came in here and started screwing everything up," I snap.

"If you're going to sleep, make sure the cameras can see you."

I give him a suggestion on where he can put his cameras, but he might not have heard me; I mumbled it into the blanket. 

"That means you can't cover yourself like that," he adds, nudging my side with his foot. 

"Don't touch me." 

"Stop fighting, Miss Pryce." 

"I'm not gonna move." 

"I'm just trying to do my job. It'll be easier for the both of us if you just started sleeping on the bed." 

I sit up suddenly, letting the blanket fall. "How long ago did your daughter die?"

That certainly caught him off-guard. "Wh—?" Taking a moment to compose himself, he answers, "That's none of your business." 

"You know the pain of losing a child," I point out, getting up. 

"This is none of your concern," he says, his voice taking a steely tone. 

I'm only a little bit shorter than him, but I square my shoulders and plant my feet, staring him in the face. "You  _know_  the pain of losing a child," I repeat. "And you willingly help put more parents in the same situation you went through." 

"Enough," he demands, but I can see that he's faltering slightly. 

"So it  _wasn't_  recently," I decide. If she had died recently, his hurt would show more prominently. I can still see how I'm getting under his skin, but he's obviously had time to process and bury his feelings. 

"Stop talking," he orders, getting in my face. 

My first instinct is to flinch away, but I manage to control myself. "My mother is  _grieving_. Just like you did." Still studying him, "She has it worse than you did. Wanna know why?"

"Do tell," he answers, but he's snarling. 

"You  _knew_  your daughter was dead," I point out. "My mom is out there  _waiting_. She has  _no clue_  if I'm alive or not." I take a confident step towards him. "Can you imagine that?  _Not knowing_? The  _uncertainty_  of it all? Wondering whether or not her baby girl has been heartlessly  _murdered_?" 

"No, I can't imagine that," he answers stiffly, still glaring at me. I want him to react! I want him to show some semblance of humanity! Not just stand there like an emotionless robot!

"What if," I start, still trying to provoke him, "you knew there was someone out there who could've saved your daughter? But he  _couldn't_  because of his precious  _job_?" 

He grabs my arms and pushes me against the wall, pinning me there by holding my wrists at shoulder-level on either side of my body. I didn't expect that, so I gasp, but I don't let myself do anything else. I'm trying to be in control; I won't let him make me panic. Instead, I remain still, glaring at him as he breathes angrily. 

"You think you can guilt me into helping you?" he huffs, matching my glare with equal intensity. "You think you can sweet-talk your way out of here? You've got another thing coming, Miss Pryce. Everyone here is trained to follow orders unconditionally. And  _you_ do  _not_  give the orders. So, I suggest you cease this insolence at once, and  _get used to this_." 

"You think I'm being  _insolent_?" I repeat, incredulous. "You think that trying to get away from the people who  _kidnapped_  me is  _insolence_?! I'm  _protecting_  myself in the  _only way I know how_!" 

" _This_  is your life now," he insists, tightening his grip on my wrists. "You  _will_  behave yourself." 

I let out a bitter laugh. "Wanna bet?" 

Someone knocks on the door and opens it. Hughes releases me and steps away, and I rub the now-sore spot on my wrists. It's a soldier. I can tell by the badges and stripes on his uniform that he's a lower rank than Hughes, but that's about all I know about military levels and outfits. He says something to my translator in German, who nods stiffly. 

Turning back to me, "Stay where the cameras can see you," he orders. 

A smirk grows on my face as a realization dawns on me: "You're not allowed to hurt me." 

He doesn't respond. He and the other soldier leave, locking the door behind them. That's why the other soldier was there. The cameras saw Hughes slam me against the wall, and they sent him in to intervene. 

Armed with this new information, I wrap myself in the blanket and sit on the windowsill. Slowly, my triumphant mood dissipates.  Sure, he can't hurt me, but it's not like I can do that much damage, either. 

It's just... I just don't know how to react to this situation. Who are they expecting me to be? They mentioned wanting to record and analyze my reactions and strengths and stuff, but which side of me are they trying to get it from? My shy side that comes out when I'm around people I don't know? My humorous nature that only friends get to see? The shattered, broken side of a girl ridden with anxiety and depression that only comes out at my lowest points? All they're gonna get for now is the feisty side of me that's not afraid to fight for justice. 

I'm giving myself a headache thinking about this. Uncomfortable, I cave in and lie on the stripped mattress, wrapped in my blanket like a chrysalis. That's a good metaphor. I'm not emerging from my cocoon until I'm damn good and ready, and trying to force me out will severely damage their expectations of what I'm supposed to be. 

Eventually, though, I start to cry. I want my family. I want to be safe. And it hurts me to know that my family is hurting, too.  _I'm alive_ , I think out to them.  _I'm alive, and I'm doing everything I can to escape_. 

 

I don't know how long it is until I am pulled unwillingly from unconsciousness. Annoyed at waking up, I flip from one side to the other, curling my legs up and bringing my knuckles to my lips, fingers curled into a fist. 

Then someone shakes my shoulder.

Before even opening my eyes, I roll over in the other direction and fall off the side, hitting my head on the floor. After taking a second to register and try to bury the pain, I shove my glasses on my face and peek over across the bed. Standing there in a white and black t-shirt and black skinny jeans is, unmistakably, Prussia.

He raises his eyebrows and lifts his hands in a surrender gesture, exhaling in a way that sounds like a laugh, like my reaction was funny. It's not very calming, and I feel a little spark of annoyance somewhere underneath all my panic.  He says hi in Japanese, dropping one hand and waving the other.

He smiles, and I see his pointed canines, and I have to stare at them—they look real.  _Very_ real. No one's natural teeth are that sharp, though. For a couple minutes, he has a one-sided conversation, and I stare at him, disbelief freezing me in the spot I fell.

I flick my eyes at the cameras. Have they allowed his presence? 

The man seems to be getting frustrated at me. Maybe it's the language barrier; he keeps saying something about Japanese and English, waiting for my response. Maybe he heard that I somewhat can understand, and now he's confused because I'm not showing any signs that I do.

I just can't believe that this is really happening. I mean, I don't know if I'm going crazy, or what, because this is too similar to the characters. This man is too comparable to Prussia. H—he  _looks_ like Prussia, he  _acts_  like Prussia, he  _sounds_  like Prussia, but all laws of nature deny that Prussia can be standing before me. So what do I believe—my senses or my knowledge?!

He asks me my name, walking a couple steps around the bed. I jump up, immediately awake, and it doesn't take long for me to be cornered against the wall. When I stubbornly remain silent, he adds that his name is Gilbert.

  _Gilbert._  Of  _course_  his name is Gilbert.

There's suddenly a small peeping noise, and I notice the small yellow bird on his head, nestled comfortably into his hair. It stands up and hops down onto his shoulder. He asks me if I understand, standing a good distance away, hands on his hips.

When I don't respond, he just kind of sighs. The bird peeps again. Gilbert suddenly perks up, and he takes the bird in his hand. Then, smiling at me, he extends his arm, offering the little fuzzball to me. As I stay still, he cautiously inches forward, and he stops when I start to move away.

He says something to me about not worrying or being afraid. He nods at the bird in his hand. 

I don't trust him, but I'm curious. I like animals. When I take a small step forward, he beams. I allow him to gently put the little animal in my hands. I'm a little bit nervous with him standing so close to me, but he doesn't make any sudden movements, which I appreciate. Maybe he's not as bad as his friends.

Gilbert asks me softly if I'm okay. He sounds concerned, which confuses me. So I ignore him, gently petting the small canary on its head. Why should he be concerned about me? If he's in this place, he's definitely with those other guys.

When I don't respond, he tells me not to worry, and he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

Alarm bells go off in my head, and my breath catches in a small gasp as I yank myself from his grasp. I stumble into the small bedside table behind me, clutching at its sides as the bird flies from my hand. 

I don't want him to touch me. I'm caught between believing that these people are actually the Hetalia characters and believing that they're working for something like the slave trade or something. It's just scary because the latter is definitely more common, and I'll probably end up as a sex slave somewhere far away from home. He must know that; he's probably in on it, and he's making sure he'll be the first to have me.

He jumps back, startled. The bird lands back on his head, and he apologizes, and then apologizes again, and then he just stands there awkwardly, rubbing his arm, looking embarrassed.

I straighten up, but otherwise remain still. He apologizes again. He says some other things that I don't understand. I caught the words "scared" and "don't"; maybe he's telling me not to be afraid. Or maybe he's saying he wasn't trying to scare me like that. 

Summoning all my knowledge of Japanese conversations, I point out that he is dangerous: " _Anata wa kikken desu."_   

 He looks like I just insulted him. I don't understand how he can't see this situation from my point of view; I've been ripped away from everything I know and love by strange men who have done nothing but hurt me. How can he think I expect anything else? 

Then it's awkwardly silent. I don't want to talk to him; he doesn't seem to know what to say, and he doesn't know if I'll understand. He asks me how much Japanese I know. I give a half-hearted shrug, brushing my hair out of my face.

Eventually, Gilbert extends his hand and asks me to come with him. When I just frown at him for a minute, he tells me that I don't need to be afraid.

I think about it. If I go with him, I can see more of this building. I want to know the layout so I can chart an escape. The temptation of that overwhelms any fears I have of this man, so I nod and take a hesitant step forward. 

I reluctantly follow him out of the room. He keeps looking back at me, making sure I haven't run away. While we walk, he talks rapid-fire, excitedly babbling about stuff I can't understand. I let my mind wander, examining the hallways. 

Soldiers converse among each other in German, their day just starting. Back home, judging by how tired I feel, I'd say it's around one in the morning, give or take a few hours.

Gilbert stops me in front of a door.  He opens it and goes inside. I wasn't invited, so I just hover in the hall, watching. It's the second room I was in after they took me here, the one they left me in until they brought Josh. He crosses over to the table and picks up the notebook I left on the table in the corner, and he brings it back. Still grinning, he offers it to me. Hesitantly, I accept. 

He waves me in and plops on the couch. I notice that he left the door open, which is weird. Doesn't he know that I'm not really supposed to be out and about? 

He says something again, patting the cushion beside him. I take a few steps into the room, but I don't sit. It disappoints him. He gets up a little too quickly for my liking. It scares me, and I backpedal, accidentally dropping the notebook. 

Gilbert holds up his hands, and he apologizes, slowly moving closer. I tremble but remain still, tears starting to form again. He's acting nice, and I just don't understand. The only conclusion I can come up with is that this is all just a front— he's  _pretending_  to be nice, but he's really about to— to, I dunno— hold me down, rip off my clothes—... something like that. I'm  _terrified_. Maybe if I pretend to go along with it, he'll have his guard down so I can kick him in the crotch and run out the open door— but then where would I go? 

Still moving cautiously, not breaking eye contact with me, he kneels and picks up the notebook at my feet, and he stands up again. 

He gently takes my still hand and guides me to the table, pushing me onto a chair, and he sits into the other one. I take the pen I discarded last time I was in here, holding it in my trembling fist. Once he relaxes a little bit, I'll shove the nib into his eye and run. I don't care where. I just need to get away from him. Honestly, what was I  _thinking_ , coming with him?! 

Gilbert smiles gently at me, and he starts scribbling on the paper. After a moment, he passes it to me. He made a circle on an oval. Two triangles point off of the side of the circle, and one triangle points the other direction in the middle of the oval. Two sticks protrude from the bottom of the oval, and each stick splits into three parts at the very end. It's a crude drawing of a bird. 

" _Tori_ ," he says, pointing at it. Bird. 

I frown at it, confused. Bird? I know that  _tori_ means bird. Why is he telling me this? 

I don't know what he makes of my silence, but he takes the notebook away again. When he slides it back, he's drawn a cat. " _Neko."_   My reaction is the same. Pulling the paper away, drawing on it, and passing it back again, this time to reveal a picture of a dog, " _Inu_." 

He seems frustrated, and he sets his pen down. " _Wakarimasu?"_  Do I understand him? 

Still frowning, I take a deep breath to prepare myself for conversation with the stranger. " _Naze_?" I ask. "Why?" Why is he doing this? Why is he trying to teach me? If he's going to try to rape me, why can't he just get it over with so I can stab him in the face with the pen and run?! I can't leave while his attention is on me! He needs to be distracted before I can make my escape! 

" _Naze?_ " he repeats, mimicking my scowl. " _Nazena no?"_  Why not, he asked. 

I don't have the words to respond. Why not? Because I don't want to be here! I want to go home! So, I just shake my head, looking away. My eyes are still watery, but there haven't been any actual tears yet. 

He sighs. After a minutes, he asks again, " _Namae wa?_ " What's my name? 

I remain silent, bouncing my leg up and down. I'm waiting for an chance to strike. To make things seem more natural, I bring my fist up against my mouth, clicking the pen over and over again. This way, I don't have to draw back to stab him with the utensil; I can just slam it down. 

Gilbert sighs again. He starts to reach for my other hand, which is still on the table. There; there's my opportunity. Bracing my thumb against the end of it, I swing my arm down to plunge the tip of the pen into the back of his hand. 

I don't look to see if I hit my mark; I just wait until I hear him yelp, and then I get up and dash towards the open door. Gilbert calls my name— he knew the whole time; I guess he just wanted me to tell him. But I ignore him. 

I barely hurtle through the doorway before I collide with a large and hard body. I don't need to see his face or hear him grunt in surprise; I know from the overwhelming aroma of beer and vanilla that it's Ludwig. 

_Just my luck._

I shove at him, trying to use that momentum to launch me in the other direction, but he grasps my wrists. I don't think he even fully registered that it was me when he grabbed me, but his exclamation of anger tells me that he knows now, and he's not pleased. 

My struggles are nothing to him. He grabs my upper arms and throws me back into the room. When I say throw, I mean  _throw_. I barely am able to cry out before I hit the ground with a thud, my body sliding across the hardwood floor a few feet before I come to a stop. 

Someone grabs me. I don't know who; I don't  _care_  who. I curl up my fist and bash it against whoever's touching me. "Get off me!" I howl. The person retreats. That means it's Gilbert; Ludwig wouldn't have let go. 

Tears falling freely now, all I can hear is Ludwig's voice thundering at me. It's too much—he's going to hurt me! I scuttle backwards, my breaths shallower than they should be. But when I open my eyes, I'm surprised—Gilbert is standing firmly between him and me, trying to talk him down. 

 I don't know what to think. I mean, Kiku did this too. But he did it for selfish reasons—he wants me safe so he can test me, whatever that means. But Gilbert—.... It looks like he's genuinely concerned for me. Plus, I can see the mark I left on his hand. I was upset and scared, and the pen isn't sharp, so the puncture isn't deep; it's more like an indentation in his skin, than anything. But the fact still remains: I tried to  _stab_  him. I  _stabbed_  him... but he's still trying to  _protect_  me....

I don't know what they're saying. It's about me, obviously. Maybe they're arguing about what happened.... Gilbert probably wasn't supposed to take me out of my room. The fact that he didn't help me escape seems to indicate that he's more of a neutral party here; not willing to help experiment on me, but not willing to help me get away. 

As their words get louder and their gestures wilder, I start to slowly shift away. Hugging the walls, I hope that they're too enveloped in their argument to notice me. 

Wishful thinking. I'm closer to him than Gilbert now because I'm trying to shuffle out of the door, and his icy glare snaps accusingly on my form. I freeze as his shouts are now directed at me. He grabs my sweatshirt and yanks me to my feet, and he shakes me, making my head loll back and forth. I'm still crying, but I grip his arms, trying to steady myself. 

Gilbert forces him to release me. Before I can retreat, he wraps his arms around me, hugging me protectively. 

I'm stunned. Still trembling, I'm too shocked to move. He smells like cheap cologne and Axe body spray. What should I do? Push him away? If I move from his embrace, will he let Ludwig keep hurting me? I don't know. I can't say. So I remain there, trapped in the stranger's hug. 

I concentrate on my breathing, listening to the conversation I can't understand. Their tones are cooling off, becoming calmer, slowly, but surely.

Gilbert lets go of me, and I meekly take a few steps back, not raising my head or gaze, drying my eyes with my sleeve. I didn't notice this before, but Gilbert is only wearing socks, and Ludwig is wearing athletic shoes. My shoes are black Converse, old, covered in red nonsense, and falling apart. I don't care. They're comfortable.

They switched back to Japanese without me noticing. I realize this after picking out a few words, and they make me snap to attention. Ludwig called Gilbert Prussia. Not noticing my newfound alert expression, Gilbert retaliates, starting by calling Ludwig West.

_Impossible._

"Ludwig" stutters to a stop, looking intently at me with an annoyed curiosity. He asks me who I'm looking at.

"West—Prussia—," I stutter, pointing at each one in turn. Then I shake my head. "Nothing," I mumble without trying to translate, dropping my gaze to the floor again. It can't be nothing, though. This is too weird. They  _act_  like their character, and they  _look_  like their characters, and they  _talk_  like their characters, but their characters are just that— _characters_.  _Fictional_  characters.   _They're not real._  Seriously, how can they exist?!

I glance up again, noting that they haven't said anything for a while. I am just in time to see the last bits of their panicky expressions leave their faces. I suppose it solidifies my theory; why would they be alarmed if they weren't somehow hundreds of years old and trying to keep it a secret? Ludwig is the first to recover. He tells me I'm wrong, and then he grabs my shoulder and starts steering me back in the general direction of my room. 

I don't resist, even though he is using unnecessary roughness, his thumb digging into my collarbone.  Gilbert, however, jumps to defend me. I don't like it, being saved like I can't protect myself; but I'm just tired of this, and I'm losing my ability to care what happens at this point. 

Kiku materializes behind Gilbert. I guess he heard the raised voices and came to see what he can do to keep the peace. If he didn't kidnap me, Kiku would seem like a pretty cool guy. Because Gilbert doesn't want for the soldiers or Ludwig to take me back to my room, and Ludwig doesn't want for Gilbert to, the compromise is for Kiku to do it. But while they were arguing, I heard it—Gilbert slipped up, starting to call Kiku  _Nihon_. Japan. He corrected himself, of course, and he shot me a worried glance, as if he was wondering if I caught his mistake, and if I did, what I would make of it. I tried not to give any signals that I did.

So, I walk slightly in front of Kiku, hands shoved in my pockets. It's been a quiet and awkward couple of minutes, but I've been thinking too much to notice it. " _Nihon,_ " I finally pluck up my courage to say. I watch his reaction out of the corner of my eye. " _Anata wa Nihon desu ka?"_ I asked him if he was Japan. 

He stiffens as he walks and looks at me, hands curled into fists. That is the most of a response that I get from him. When he speaks, he sounds just as cool and collected as usual. " _Watashi no namae wa Kiku desu. Nihon-jin desu."_  He explains that his name is Kiku, not Japan, but he is Japanese. 

I keep looking at him for a few more moments, keeping my expression unconvinced, just because I like how uncomfortable it seems to make him. Then I let out a slight, "Hm," and turn my eyes forward. I think of ways to tip him off that I know who he really is. Or, maybe I could use the information as my secret weapon. Surprise them enough to escape.

" _Sumimasen,"_  Kiku asks, breaking through my thoughts. "Excuse me," he said. I glance over at him to show I'm listening. He looks uncomfortable. "... _Anime wo mimasuka?"_  I almost laugh. He asked me if I watch anime.

I give him a ghost of a smile. A smirk. An  _I know your secret_  expression. And his discomfort at that makes me happy. Small revenge is better than none. After all he's done to me, knowing the secret he keeps closest is mine to reveal if I so please comforts me. He can't do anything about it, and he knows it. He doesn't ask again, proving that it wasn't just chit chat.

Kiku walks in front of me to unlock the red door to my room, and he stands aside. Though his expression remains neutral, I can feel his gaze questioning me, perhaps wondering how I got the information, if I really understand. I look back at him, raising my eyebrows. I'm not quite sure what message I'm trying to convey, but I see it has an effect as Kiku closes the door and locks it.

"Issa?" Josh asks at once, his voice muffled from the vent.

"Yeah, I'm here," I call back, walking to the air duct and lying down in front of it.

As soon as the words leave my mouth he exhales sharply. "Oh my  _gosh,_  don't  _do_  that! I woke up and you were gone! I—I thought they  _killed_  you or something!  _What happened_?" he demands.

I raise myself up on my elbows, taken aback by his intensity. "Dude, I'm  _fine_! Nothing happened. I just—" I take a deep breath and start again. "You know how we were talking about how they look like the guys from Hetalia?"

"Yes...." His reply is skeptical, still slightly angry and scared, and I can tell he just wants for me to answer his question.

"I—I think they're real. Those guys, I—I think they really are the countries." I hear him scoff, and I jump to defend my theory. "No, it's just— I met Prussia, okay? And it's the way they talk to each other, and they occasionally accidentally call each other by their country names."

"So what?! Maybe they've seen it too, and they're just trying to mess with our heads!"

"No, they literally looked scared when I started to piece it together. I asked Kiku if he was Japan, and—well, of course he denied it—but after, he asked me if I watched anime. He wasn't just making small talk—he wanted to know if I knew."

"What did you say to him?"

"Nothing. I just tried to be mysterious."

The emotion in his voice drops, and he gives a weak chuckle. "Mysterious. How'd that work out?"

"I think I sent my message clear enough," I respond, changing positions to lie on my stomach, arms as a pillow.

Josh doesn't answer for a while, and I feel bad for scaring him. I just lie there for a while, listening to the vent noises and the many footsteps of people outside my room. "So, you think you're right?" he asks after a while. "They're real?"

"...I can't be sure. They're definitely hiding something, and the only thing that fits is what they really are."

"How do you do that?" I'm about to ask what it is exactly that I can do when he clarifies, "It's like you're reading their minds." 

"I'm not reading their minds," I correct, "just their body language. I—I don't really know. I guess I've just had a lot of time to practice."

"...What're you talking about? Your school?"

The blunt question brings me up short. "Yeah," I finally respond. "I don't have any friends; what am I supposed to do? No one will tell me if I'm annoying them or not, so I have to piece out the answer myself." 

I'm surprised at myself for telling him this, and even more surprised that I could sort out my feelings into words. Every time I try to explain it to my mom or my sister, I end up babbling gibberish. This is also a very personal bit of information about myself; all the time, I try to act like I don't care, that I'm perfectly fine on my own, which, most of the time, I am. But there are days when I cry myself to sleep because I'm lonely and I know if I try to do something about it, I'll end up lonelier than before.

"...Wow. That sucks."

"Tell me about it."

The conversation dies after that, and we both let it. I'm too tired to think, so I just lie there, comfortable on the carpeted floor. "What time do you think it is?" Josh asks through a yawn.

"I don't know." I yawn, too. "Past my bedtime."

He laughs softly. "I think it's morning." 

"Oh—I didn't tell you what happened." I take a deep breath. "Prussia came by—well, Hughes came by first, but he left fairly quickly—anyway, Prussia. He took me out of my room to try to teach me Japanese. I got mad at him because I didn't want him to help me—now that I'm back, I kinda wonder why. I guess it was kind of a pride thing. Anyway—Germany found us arguing, and then he and Prussia started arguing, and then Japan came and took me back. And then that's it."

"Aw. You should've stayed and learned, and then you could've helped me."

"I know," I say regretfully. "Like I said—pride thing. I don't want to be treated like a kid."

"Enh, I dunno. If being treated like an adult means they can beat me up all the time, I'd choose to be treated like a kid."

"Makes sense."

"Ugh, I'm so tired," I yawn. "If we're going to be staying here for a long time, I'm just not going to try to change my sleeping schedule. They took me from America; they can deal with me during American daytime."

"That seems kinda risky," he comments. "They're all bigger and stronger than us. So they can hurt us if we don't do what they say."

I snort when he says 'bigger and stronger.' "You do realize I'm, like, a foot taller than Japan, right?"

"Yeah, okay, enjoy being tall. Meanwhile, I'm over here sitting pretty at 5'3"."

I laugh. "It's not my fault!" I protest. "I guess it's my dad's fault. I passed my mom when I was twelve."

"Yeah, it's my dad's fault I'm short," he complains. "Greg—my brother—got Mom's tall genes."

It's quiet for a while after that. I start thinking about our families. Josh reads my mind and speaks before I can. "I wonder what they're doing right now."

"I don't know," I respond. "Probably sleeping, considering the time. It's, like,  _really_  late right now for me."

He pauses. "It feels like morning for me. I wonder if my family slept at all...."

I think about that, and it makes me sad. I picture Mom sitting awake by the phone in the kitchen, possibly a mug of untouched coffee in her hands, waiting for a call that won't come. My mind brings me to the next morning; she'll be there, finally asleep with her head on the counter, and Renae will walk up and have to see her in that state.

"They'll be fine," I make myself say. "They have to be."

 After that, I fall asleep again. And I don't wake up until the door opens.


	3. The Subjects

 

Jia Li has had a very busy morning, so she is not at all pleased to find out that she has once again neglected to finish her maths homework. She figures she has two options: own up to her mistake or copy from her friend's.

"Mei, gimme your homework," she whispers, sinking into the chair next to her and frantically yanking out her uncompleted worksheet.

Mei looks up. Since Jia has seen her last, she has gotten another blue streak in her hair. "It's gonna cost ya," Mei singsongs, leisurely pulling her folder from her own bag.

Jia snatches it out of her friend's hands. "You're a lifesaver. Really, you are. What do you want?"

"I want you to get out of your zone and come to the movies with me tonight. It's been  _ages_  since we last hung out."

She pauses in her scribbling, giving Mei a sad glance. "You know I can't tonight. I have to babysit Fai. Tomorrow?"

"No, tomorrow you have your—."

"My tutoring! Damn, I forgot."

"You know, I'm sure Shen won't mind an evening off. He's not  _that_  stupid."

"No, he told me he has a big test coming up." Jia finishes writing and sets her pencil down. "I'm really sorry, Mei. I just have too much to do. Plus, I have all this  _homework_ , and my extracurriculars, and—."

Mei sighs. "I want my paper back, then. Erase your answers and face your fate."

"No!" Jia whines, leaning dramatically on her friend's arm. "Tell you what. Maybe we can take Fai with us tonight."

" _Finally_. That means we can't go see that new ghost movie."

Jia snorts. "Probably not." She leans back in her chair, smoothing down her skirt. She sighs upon noticing that, in her haste to dress this morning, she had buttoned her shirt incorrectly, and she carefully fixes it.

 

The rest of the school day passes with relative ease. Jia struggles to pay attention while dealing with a lack of sleep caused by her many activities. As the day goes on, she does notice a tightness in her chest. Leaning against her locker, Jia stops and tries to catch her breath.

"Hey, are you okay?" Mei asks, joining her.

She nods. "I think so. Just... winded all of a sudden."

"You're so out of shape. That was only one flight of stairs, and you climb them every day."

Jia swats her friend's arm playfully. "Whatever."

 

School ends, and the odd feeling of impending doom slowly increases, but still Jia ignores it. She has things to do; she can't waste time having some sort of anxiety attack.

The streets of Beijing are packed, like normal. Jia and Mei part ways so they can drop their school things at their respective homes and change out of their uniforms. "Hi, Mom," Jia says as she walks in.

Her mom looks up from her laptop and smiles in acknowledgement, tapping her Bluetooth earpiece to explain that she's on a phone call with a client. "Uh-huh, yes, I understand. I'm sorry, but we can't get that done until later this week. Does that work for you?" In the next room, Jia's little brother, Fai, shrieks in delight as he realizes that Jia is home.

"Keep it down, small fry! Mom's on the phone." Jia picks up the little toddler, carrying him back towards his room.

"Missed you!" he chirps.

"I missed you too. How was your day?"

"Good! I drawed a picture." Fai grins.

"Drew," Jia corrects. "Can I see it?"

"Yeah!" She puts him down, and he runs to his room, pulling her by the hand. Fai has scribbled all over his walls in red crayon. "Do you like it?"

"Oh, Fai," Jia sighs. "I'd like it a lot more if you drew it on paper." She goes to the bathroom to get the cleaning supplies.

"No! Don't erase it! It's my best yet!"

"Sorry, little guy, but you know you're not supposed to draw on the walls." She gets to work, trying to clean as best as she can. Fai throws a tantrum.

Their mother appears in the doorway. "Fai,  _please_  keep it down. Jia, the school called. We need to talk."

She lowers the soapy rag, her nerves tightening. "Oh. What's up?"

"Your maths teacher thinks that you've been copying Mei's homework. Is that true?"

Jia lowers her head. "Yes. I didn't have time to finish it last night."

"You know you can't do that, Jia. That's plagiarism."

"I didn't have time! I barely got to  _sleep_!"

"I don't want excuses, okay? I have enough to deal with right now. You're grounded for a week."

"Grounded?!" Jia gets to her feet. "Mom, I've been working nonstop! I take care of Fai, I tutor other students, and I'm in Scholar's Bowl! I'm doing my best! I was going to go hang out with Mei tonight!  _With_  Fai, of course, because you're  _too busy_  to take care of him yourself!"

"No, I don't want to hear it. I don't like your attitude, either. Are you learning that from Mei, as well?"

"She's not a bad influence," she tries. Mei  _is_  a bit of a character, to be honest. She likes to wear ripped black clothes with emblems of the heavy-metal bands she likes. She dyed her hair blonde, and she always seems to be getting new streaks. Jia's mom classifies Mei as a "bad girl," and Mei wears that label proudly.

"It's too late. I've made up my mind. And if you keep arguing, I'll make it two weeks."

Jia opens her mouth to argue, but then closes it again.  _That's so not fair_. "...Yes, Mom."

"I have to go back to the office. Be good, okay?"

She bites back a scathing excuse.  _I'm always good_. "When will you be back?"

"Not until late. Don't wait up."

That's how it normally is.  _Don't wait up_. "Yes, Mom."

After her mom leaves, Jia flops on Fai's bedroom floor, leaning against the crayon-covered wall.  **Bad news** , she texts Mei.  **I'm grounded** **☹**

**Mei (15: 46): Dam ur moms a bich.**

**Jia (15: 47): Well, she's going to be gone until late again... maybe i could sneak out**

**Mei (15:47): hELL YEAH THAT'S MY GURL I KNEW U HAD IT IN U**

Jia laughs. "Fai, you wanna go see a movie tonight?"

"YES!" he shrieks, tackling his sister with a hug.

 

Jia has never snuck out before, so she may have overcompensated. She changes the time on the analog clock to read a few hours ahead, and she changes Fai into his pajamas. She then takes a picture with him while the clock is conveniently in the frame. Around that time, she'll send the picture to her mom to make it seem like they are still at home.

"It's not like she's going to check," Mei argues when they meet up at the movie theater. "She's not the most attentive parent."

"She's trying her best," Jia responds.

"Look, I respect that she's doing the whole 'single mother' thing, I really do. Still, I bet she doesn't know how many words Fai can say or what his favorite food is or anything about him." Mei pays for the tickets, and Jia buys the snacks. "Honestly, you're more of a mother to him than she is."

Jia bumps her shoulder against Mei's. "She's right—you  _are_  trying to turn me against her."

"Is it working?"

"Not yet. She's not the best parent, but she's trying. Popcorn?"

"I  _always_  want popcorn."

 

They watch the movie. Fai enjoys it more than Mei, and Mei definitely enjoys it more than Jia, who is struggling to breathe again. "Jia, are you sure you're okay?" Mei whispers.

Jia waves a dismissive hand. "I might be having an anxiety attack. No big deal."

"Is it because you snuck out? Do you wanna go home?"

"I—I dunno. I'll stay—Fai is having fun."

"...Okay, but I'm here if you need me."

Jia rests her head on her friend's shoulder. "I know."

"Sh!" someone behind them hisses.

 

As it turns out, Fai fell asleep before the movie ended. If they had left when Mei asked, maybe things would have ended up better.

They exit into the lobby. "Girl, you're so pale. You need to go home."

Jia pushes her sweaty bangs out of her face. "Y—yeah. Here, I'll carry him." She takes her brother and cradles him. He keeps sleeping, unbothered by the shift.

When they leave the building and walk through the dark streets towards the bus stop, Jia would have sworn that the hand that grabs her shoulder is her mother's.  _Of course_ , she thinks as her insides clench with fear.  _Knowing my luck, this is the one night Mom comes home early._

It's not her mom. It's a very tall stranger.

"We're not interested!" Mei snaps, slapping his hand away from Jia and tugging her forward. More annoyed, the man swats at her and grabs Jia's arm again. "Listen, we're not prostitutes. If you're looking for whores, go a couple blocks that way."

"Don't swear in front of Fai," Jia scolds.

"C'mon, he's asleep. I'll say whatever the hell I want." She slaps the man's hand again. " _Especially_  if this asshole won't leave you alone."

"What's asshole?" Fai mumbles, lifting his head.

Giving Mei a stern look, "Nothing, Fai. Go back to sleep." She stiffens when the man grabs her a third time. "Please let go."

He doesn't. He takes her chin in his hand, forcing her to look at him. It's hard to see in the dim light, but the stranger is blond and very muscular. He has friends, too—a shorter man with black hair and a redheaded man who looks very uncomfortable.

Jia is overwhelmed with a sudden wave of fear. "Wh—what do you want?"

"Doesn't matter what they want," Mei fumes, pushing the man away.

The man doesn't like that. He grabs Mei by the back of her jacket and thrusts her into the arms of the black haired man, who then slaps his hand over her mouth and walks backwards to drag her into the shadowy alleyway behind him.

Jia almost screams, but the blond man beats her to it—he covers her mouth as well, following his friend and his struggling captive. Fai wakes up again and picks up the general air of the situation, and he starts to yowl.

Jia is too stunned for a second to move, but she springs into action when she feels the man try to take Fai away from her. All of her instincts form into one single thought— _you will not hurt my brother_.

She clamps her teeth on the man's hand and grabs the wrist that tugs at Fai, tightening her hold on him. For a moment, she forgets about Mei. The only thing that matters now is getting Fai away from these men. Then she'll call the police, and they can rescue her friend.

Her thoughts are interrupted by a sharp prick on her neck and a cold seeping sensation spreading outward from the pinched skin.

Time slows to a crawl. She feels the syringe finally part from her throat. Jia can't stop the redheaded man from prying the screeching toddler out of her arms, although she does notice that he is exceedingly gentle and apologetic. The blond man is supporting her—she feels the strength leaving her legs. Mei is screaming, and they restrain and gag her with duct tape. Fai is wailing, and they set him down on Mei's lap.

 

Jia is crying, and they carry her away.

 

 

 

 ___

 

Dimah Petrakis is working. He really should've done this earlier, before the snowstorm had hit. But,  _no_ , his father  _had_  to make Dimah train for three hours longer than normal. Now, he stands outside in a blizzard, chopping wood for the fireplace.

His muscles ache, and the injuries he received during combat training throb. But he's not bitter. Dimah's a good son, and he'll be a great heir to his father's business. Whatever it is. He still won't give Dimah a direct answer.

Dimah knows his father controls a lot of people. A lot of strong and clever people—people ripped with muscles, people who are good at tracking others. He thinks that's mostly what the business is doing—tracking. But as for who or what they're tracking... Dimah doesn't know.

He gathers the chopped wood and carries it inside his family's modest house. His elder sister is teaching his younger sister how to knit. A useful skill, to be sure, but Alina isn't doing well. The knitting needles are too big for her small hands.

Alina is mostly deaf from an infection that plagued her as a baby. Vera signs, "Maybe we should switch to crocheting," after Alina pokes herself with the needle again.

"No," she signs simply, continuing to fumble with the utensils.

Vera sighs, but she turns to Dimah. "Thanks," she says, taking a few logs from her brother to put in the fireplace.

"They're still damp," he tells her. "It might be better to just bundle up for the night."

"Mm. Yeah," she agrees, forlornly rubbing her cold hands together for warmth.

"Father forget to pay the electric bill again?"

"I think so. I sent in a check, but with the storm, it might not get there for a few more days."

Dimah grunts in displeasure and tries to light a fire despite the wood's sogginess. After a few minutes and a lot of kerosene, he manages to get a flame going. He's always been good at setting fires.

"Thank you," Alina signs as she scoots her chair closer to the warmth.

"Not too close," Dimah signs back, "you'll burn."

She nods and continues to try to knit.

"Did you get hurt today?" Vera asks worriedly.

"No," Dimah lies. Before Vera can probe more, he says, "I haven't finished my Japanese homework."

She sighs. "Do you want help?"

"You're not good at Japanese," he tells her in that language, smirking a little at her frustrated expression when she doesn't understand.

Their father wants Dimah to learn Japanese. That's how he communicates with his employees, and if Dimah is to take over the business in the future, he has to learn. He's not the best at it yet, but he's decent.

 

Around eight, the siblings see headlights appear in their driveway. "Strange," Vera notes, signing as she speaks, "I could have sworn Father was still in Vienna."

Dimah, in the middle of cooking dinner, flips some vegetables nonchalantly. "I thought so too," he answers, but he's not concerned.

"Home early?" Alina signs hopefully.

"No," Vera signs. "Father's truck is loud. This one is not."

"Mistake," the youngest guesses.

Wrong again. There's a knock on the door.

Vera answers it. Dimah's nerves tighten; he's not fond of strangers. When they're outside minding their own business, they're fine. But now they're asking for entry into the Petrakis' house, and Dimah doesn't like that. He's territorial.

He flicks off the gas stove and moves the pan away from the heat. Wiping his hands on his pants, he walks into the front hall right as Vera calls, "Hey, Dimah, they're speaking Japanese."

"What do you want?" Dimah asks, not too politely.

The first man is tall, taller than Dimah, which is an impressive feat. He's built like an ox, with blond hair and sharp features. The man next to him comes up to the first man's shoulder, and he looks Asian. The third has red hair, and he's about as tall as Dimah.

"Oh, he speaks Japanese. That wasn't in the report," the Asian man mutters. He fishes a folder out of a messenger bag and clicks a pen, jotting down a note.

"Report?" Dimah echoes warily, half-sure about the word's meaning.

"That might make this easier." The blond man cracks his knuckles. "You're going to come with us."

Dimah lets out a snort of laughter. "No, I am not."

"Don't make this difficult, boy," he responds sternly.

"Look, I have my studies to complete. I have to go to work in," Dimah checks his wristwatch, "an hour. Plus, I am helping with chores. I am not going with you."

"Fine, then, we'll do this the hard way."

Since the man basically announced that he was going to attack, Dimah has about a second's warning. He pushes hard on the door so that it smacks the blond man on the forehead when he tries to charge. "Go to the cellar!" Dimah tells Vera in Russian, blocking the door with his body. "I'll take care of this."

"But—!"

" _Now_ , Vera!"

She scoops Alina in her arms and obeys. The man had been pounding on the door and shouting, but now he's not, and Dimah slowly steps away, tense, ready to throw himself against it again if the stranger were to attack.

That had been what the men wanted. He was too focused on the door, so he doesn't notice until it's too late—the blond man punches a hole through the closest window and climbs through. He hears the redhead man weakly call, "I'll just wait here...!"

Dimah picks up a wooden chair by its back. "What the  _hell_  is your problem?!" Without waiting for an answer, he swings, putting as much force into the arc as he can.

He is thoroughly surprised when the blond man  _catches_  it, stopping the chair mid-swing.

The microsecond's pause is all the man needs. With his other hand, he punches Dimah in the chin. While he reels back, the man grabs a handful of hair and propels Dimah forward face-first into the wall.

"Don't be too rough," the Japanese man reminds the blond.

"He started it." The man easily dodges Dimah's clumsy punch. "See? So aggressive. At least he has some moves. All the girl did was flail."

Report? Girl? That makes it sound like they've been watching him, and that he's not the only one they've attacked.

Dimah's adrenaline is working against him, so he doesn't have much mental capacity to think at the moment. He's too concentrated on trying to get the strangers out of his house.

But his attempts are not working. His muscles were already stiff, and he's disoriented by the blow to the head. The man catches his fist and puts him in a wrist lock, twisting Dimah's arm behind his back. Dimah bites back a cry of pain.

The stranger wraps his arm around Dimah's neck, and Dimah is suddenly afraid for his life. But the man isn't trying to cut off his airflow. He positions his elbow under Dimah's chin so that he can't bite, and he grabs Dimah's hair again, forcing him to bend slightly in an awkward way that exposes his neck.

"ALINA,  _NO_!" Dimah hears Vera scream, and maybe she's loud enough that her warning registers in Alina's scarred ears. If it does, the little girl ignores her. She runs up to the two grappling figures and stabs the taller one in the knee with her knitting needle.

He howls in pain and loosens his grip on Dimah, who takes that opportunity and jabs his elbow into the man's chest to free himself completely. Scooping up his little sister, he sprints to the kitchen, the blond man now angrier than ever and seconds behind him.

Dimah unceremoniously throws Alina into the pantry and closes the door to hide her from the strangers. Somehow, he guessed that the man was reaching for him, and he drops to the floor to dodge. It works, thankfully. Dimah braces his feet against the wall and pushes off to penguin-slide between the man's legs.

From there, Dimah has the foresight to flick the stove back on before he grabs the pan he was using before the attack. Not wasting any time, he turns and brings the burning metal swiftly against the man's jaw.

He roars in pain but backs up a few steps to catch his breath and feel the new wound. "Oh, you little bastard."

Pushing a few seared vegetable slices away from his feet so he won't slip on them, Dimah puts the pan back on the little flame to warm it up for another attack. "Had enough?" he pants.

Pure instinct makes him react to the sudden attack by the Japanese man, swinging his weapon at the new threat. This man isn't as winded as the blond one is now, and Dimah is tired. This man's blows are strategic—strong, sharp jabs to pressure points on Dimah's body, and Dimah is very quickly in no shape to stop him.

The blond man has recovered, and he grabs Dimah and puts him in the headlock again, positioned the same way to show off the side of his neck.

The Japanese man has a needle in his hand. Dimah snarls and struggles like a trapped animal, but it's no use. As strong and skilled as he thought he was, it's obvious that he's nowhere near the level that these men are on.

Dimah yells as the man pokes him in the neck with the syringe. It doesn't hurt, not really. Not compared to the pain he's used to. But he's panicking now—this was obviously a test, set up by his father, and he has failed.

Father will not be pleased. Not at all.

 

 

The strange floating feeling continues as Dimah wakes up. He feels lightheaded and extremely heavy at the same time, and he groans in displeasure. Someone is speaking in Japanese, and it takes a few more moments than necessary for the words to make sense. "He's waking up. Take him straight to room 87A when we get there."

"Mnn," Dimah attempts. He hears his own voice, so at least he knows it works despite the scratchy feeling.

"Does he need a translator? I can get Kuznetsov."

"Maybe just in case. He seemed fluent. How did we miss that?"

"His father is Dmitri Petrakis. We couldn't get too close."

"Ah, of course."

"Mmnn," Dimah tries again, more insistently. He doesn't know what he's trying to say, but whatever word it is, it's not coming out. He tries to open his mouth, and he realizes he can't bare his teeth—his lips are sealed together, probably with duct tape. He realizes he can't move his arms, either.

_Oh, fu—_

Dimah's thoughts are interrupted when the rumbling beneath him stops, which he didn't even notice until it was gone. When he tries to open his eyes, he realizes he's blindfolded.

It's too cold—it's  _much_  too cold all of a sudden. Strong hands grab the back of his jacket and pull. "Get up," the man says harshly.

Dimah doesn't want to. It's too cold, and he's too tired. And if this is a test, his father won't hurt him  _too_  badly.

What should he do? He has failed step one—he let himself be overpowered and incapacitated. Does Father expect him to be subservient in his defeat?

No, that doesn't sound like something Father would want of him. He should fight.

The most Dimah can do in this state is weakly headbutt his captor in the chest. He can almost hear his father's sneers: " _Is that the best you can do?"_

No. No, Dimah can do better. And he  _must—_ since he put on such a poor show back at home, he has to prove himself now.

So he tries to fight back; he really,  _really_  tries. But he's blindfolded, restrained, gagged, and drugged—he's completely helpless. So he uses his last tactic: he goes limp.

The man guiding/ shoving him drops Dimah in the snow. "Get up," he snarls again, kicking him.

"Mmnn," Dimah answers. Translation: "Go to hell."

He tenses, waiting for the inevitable blow. "Wait!" someone new says. "Don't hurt him— he's not supposed to be hurt." This man sounds wimpy—one of Father's tech guys, probably.

"How else," the man punctuates his question with another kick to Dimah's stomach, "is he supposed to learn?"

"Not like that!" Gentler hands touch Dimah's shoulder, then peel the tape off his mouth. "Please get up—you're making things harder on yourself."

Dimah doesn't bother asking who they are—they're obviously some of Father's men. "Where am I? Where are my sisters?"

"They're okay—we left them alone." The tech guy's hands tug on his shirt. "Please?"

He lets himself be pulled to his feet. He lets himself be yanked along for what feels like hours inside a building, up a lot of stairs. Finally, they slow down and stop, and strong hands push Dimah into a chair and secure him there with rope. There's talking in low voices, but too quiet for Dimah to make out.

Someone rips the blindfold off—the blond man. "Don't make me hurt you," he warns.

"If I remember right," Dimah says slowly, slurring his words, "I kicked your ass."

Pain blossoms across his cheekbone when the man slaps him. He lets out a short yelp. The man grabs Dimah's face and makes him look at him. "We didn't bring you here to hurt you, but if you keep talking back to me, I won't hesitate."

"Let us make it a fair fight, then," Dimah quips, too tired to jerk his head out of the man's grasp. He remembers that he doesn't know the word for "untie" in Japanese, so he settles for, "Let me out."

That seems to amuse him. "No."

"You are scared, are you not? You will have your ass kicked by 15-year-old boy a second time—you are scared to—!" Dimah's words break in another grunt of pain when the man slaps him again.

This time, there's an outburst of anger. "Ludwig!" someone says sharply, entering the small room. "How many times do I have to remind you—you  _cannot_  beat the subjects!"

"He's got a mouth on him," the newly-dubbed Ludwig snarls.

"You'll skew the results," the Japanese man insists.

"Subjects," Dimah murmurs to himself. "Results. Report. Girl." He knows the meaning of the words, and they all indicate that there's some sort of test going on that doesn't include just him.

Two more men enter the room—the redhead and a man with graying hair. "Mr. Petrakis, I presume," the older man says formally and in Russian. "A pleasure."

"I'm sure," he responds coolly in his native tongue. "Where's my father?"

"He asks for his father," the man tells the other three in Japanese.

"I could have told them that," Dimah snarls, switching languages again. "I am able. I speak."

"Your father can't help you here," Ludwig taunts, sitting down across a table in front of Dimah.

He frowns. "I do not ask for his help. Or his forgiveness—I know I do not deserve. I just wonder where he is. Why he does not face me himself." Dimah looks away. "I failed the test, did I not? Why does he not—."

"Test?" the Japanese man interrupts. "What test?"

Dimah is genuinely confused. "This is not...? What do you mean? Was this not a test?"

They almost look like they pity Dimah. "You think that your father would kidnap you as a test?"

"Wait—you mean—...." Dimah almost laughs, halfway out of relief. "This is actual kidnapping?"

They seem at a loss for words. "...Yes? I thought that was obvious...."

"...Oh. Well, damn."

Ludwig snorts in laughter. "That's all you can say to being abducted? 'Well, damn'? You're not going to panic?"

"Panic...," Dimah repeats. "Fear helps not."

He releases a big breath and leans back. "This kid has some serious issues."

The redhead awkwardly clears his throat. "...You seem...relieved...that this is real. Does... does your father... hurt you?"

Dimah squirms beneath the restraints and avoids eye contact. "Not business of yours." To stop them from asking more questions, he starts again. "Who are you?"

"My name is Kiku Honda, and these are my associates Ludwig Beilschmidt and Feliciano Vargas. Colonel Igor Kuznetsov is here to translate for you, but it seems his services aren't necessary. Still, I would like you to remain here in case you are needed," the Japanese man adds to the graying man with eyes so blue they're silver, who nods.

Dimah shifts under his restraints again. "I am... in trouble," he realizes.

Ludwig snorts again. "Yeah, no sh—."

"Language," Kiku interrupts. "...But you're not worried about trouble from us."

"No, I am," Dimah admits calmly, telling the truth. He doesn't mention that he's more worried about how angry Father will be when he realizes that, not only did Dimah allow himself to be kidnapped, he allowed himself to be kidnapped by people who weren't his men, people who are strangers and therefore automatically weaker by far than any man Dimah's father trained.

"...You think that your father—."

"I wish to not speak of this," Dimah interrupts firmly. "What do you want of me?" In Russian, "Uh, what's the word...." He gives up trying to remember it and says it in Russian to the translator.

"Ransom."

"Yes. Ransom. We have little money, so I know not what you might—."

"Not ransom. You are a unique specimen, and we are going to study you."

"Study," he repeats dully.

"It means—," the translator starts.

"I know what it means," he snaps. The older man purses his lips but says nothing. "This is... this is not about my father at all," he realizes, furrowing his eyebrows.

"You're obsessed with that guy," Ludwig grunts.

"He is... important man, I think, to some people. If not ransom for money, then ransom for... favors, or something. But, no. This is... this is about  _me_."

"Hey, he's not as dumb as he looks." Ludwig claps his hands in mock approval.

"Let me out, and I will make you look smarter, as well," Dimah snarls, tensing against his restraints.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, you little—." He stops when Kiku puts a hand on his chest and silences him with a look.

Dimah notices something and leans forward to confirm it. "...You are not burned."

The man stiffens. "Why would I be burned?"

"I hit you with hot pan in the face." Dimah narrows his eyes and shifts to look at him from different angles. "You should have burn. But you do not."

"It doesn't matter," he returns threateningly.

"How are you not burned?" Dimah insists.

The man narrows his eyes. "Drop it," he hisses, standing in an attempt to intimidate the boy.

Dimah notices that he's pressed a button, and he jumps at the opportunity to press it more. Maybe he'll learn something, and besides, he's genuinely curious. "How—are—you—not—burned?" he repeats, enunciating each word.

Ludwig takes one step towards the edge of the table to go around it, but Kiku's hand shoots out and grabs the man's sleeve. "If you're going to be violent, you should leave," he whispers angrily. "You can't hurt them for being observant."

Ludwig snorts in anger, but he does as he's told, giving Dimah a scathing glare as he exits. He slams the door behind him.

"You are not limping either!" Dimah shouts after him. "He should be limping—my sister stabbed him with knitting needle in leg."

Kiku doesn't provide any explanation. "Now, if you have no more questions—."

"When will I go home?"

"Not until we're done with testing, and that will take a long time."

Dimah frowns and looks away. "I need to be home today, before Father comes back from trip."

Kiku pauses, seeming to pity him. "Your father won't find you here," he says, and he means it two ways— both that he can't hurt Dimah, and that he's not going to help him escape.

"...Father will not be happy. If I am not home when he gets home...."

"He'll hurt you?" the redhead, Feliciano, they called him, interjects. This is the man that Dimah thought was a technician.

Dimah hesitates. "...I speak no mean words about my father," he says at last.

"It's not mean if it's the truth. Does he hurt you?"

"I—I wish to not speak of this," Dimah answers, avoiding eye contact. "All you need to know is that if I am not home when Father gets home, I will not be welcome back. A—and I must protect my sisters. So, please, let me out."

The three men share incredulous and sad looks. "...We're very sorry," Kiku says, "but no. You're needing for testing."

Dimah tenses against his restraints again and gives a feeble thrash against them. "What testing? I am not important or special!"

"That's classified." When Dimah doesn't understand the word, he clarifies, "You're not allowed to know."

"I am not allowed to know what you want of me?!" he repeats, his anger rising.

"Correct."

"You must let me out  _right now_ ," Dimah demands, struggling to free himself. " _Right now_ , I said!"

"No. Calm down."

"No, I will not calm down!" To emphasize this, he fights harder. "Let me out! I must go home!"

"Stop shouting, or we'll gag you," Kiku warns.

Dimah doesn't know what gag means, but he doubts it's good, so he breathes heavily. "I will crush your tiny head with bare hands if you do not let me out," he says as calmly as he can manage.

"You are in no position to make threats."

"I will make them anyway— if you do not let me out—."

Kiku nods at the translator, Kuznetsov, and the older man pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and stuffs it in Dimah's mouth. Dimah tries to bite him, but he misses his fingers by centimeters.

Dimah yells in fury, struggling harder than ever. "We're taking you to your room now," Kiku says over the boy's screams.

"It's not wise to let him walk," Kuznetsov advises.

"You're right. Just push his chair; it has wheels." So the man does, pulling Dimah out of the room and down the halls.

"Stop making a scene, Mr. Petrakis," he scolds in Russian.

Dimah tries to answer, but his words are incoherent behind the cloth. Feliciano trails nervously, fruitlessly trying to calm him. "It's okay, Dimah—we're not going to hurt you—just relax, okay? It'll make everything go easier!"

They stop at a blue door near the end of a hallway on the fifth floor before Kiku produces a knife and cuts through the ropes confining him to the chair. He leaves the duct tape around his wrists, though.

Kuznetsov presses his fingers on the sides of Dimah's jaw to make his mouth open, and he takes his handkerchief back, even though it's covered in Dimah's saliva now. Then he tips the chair to make Dimah stand, but he keeps a tight grip on his arm.

Kiku opens the blue door, and they start to push him in. "Wait!" Dimah cries. "I have question!"

They pause. "What?"

Dimah turns around and manages to kick Feliciano between the legs. He collapses, squealing.

Dimah doesn't see Kuznetsov even take the taser out. All he knows is that he's suddenly electrocuted.

He screams in pain— they were going to do taser and pepper spray resistance training soon, so he's never experienced having this level of voltage coursing through his muscles.

He falls when Kuznetsov withdraws, unable to straighten his legs. They catch him, and they drag him into the room, drop him, and then leave. The door locks behind them. "I'll kill you...!" he wheezes into the carpet.

Dimah cries out in shock when he feels a hand touch his shoulder, and he scuttles away, but he quickly regrets it. There's a voice, a gentle one that he can't understand, trying to soothe him. Opening one eye through his pained grimace, he notices his apparent cell-mate—another boy around his age with bright blond hair and worried green eyes.

"Who are you?" Dimah asks through gritted teeth. When it's clear that the boy doesn't speak Japanese, he tries again in Russian, but he has the same response—silence and a politely confused expression.

He sighs and rests his forehead on his knee. "Typical."

The boy says something, and he hears the word "okay." He shakes his head—no, he's not okay; not by a long shot. His father is going to beat him within an inch of his life when he gets home.

And if Dimah's not home to be Father's punching bag, what if he turns on Vera or Alina?! Dimah strains against the tape, gritting his teeth to keep from crying.

The boy takes a few steps forward and kneels in front of Dimah, reaching for his arms. Dimah scoots back. "Stay away from me," he snarls.

He lifts his open palms in a placating gesture. Then he puts his arms behind his back and mimes struggling, and he moves forward again. This time, Dimah lets him, sighing. He accepts the boy's help. With a few minutes of tugging, the boy manages to stretch the tape to make a gap wide enough for Dimah to slip his hands through.

"Thanks," he murmurs numbly, rubbing the red marks on his wrists.

Dimah lets himself wallow in misery for a few moments. Then he gets up. Or, rather, he tries to. The spot on his chest where he was tased burns, and his muscles are still twitching.

He manages, though. Keeping pressure on the wound—should he be keeping pressure? It's an electrical burn; it's not like he's trying to stop bleeding—whatever—he stands, taking in his surroundings.

He was expecting a cell. This looks more like a hotel room, right down to the ugly wallpaper and matching upholstery. There are three beds and three dressers, and directly across from the door there's a bay windowsill. Dimah hobbles towards it, hopeful even though he knows he shouldn't be. The window is one pane of glass, and they're five-ish stories up.

Next to the window is another door. This one is open, and Dimah can see that it's a bathroom. The room is slightly foggy; it seems like the other boy just finished showering.

Speaking of his roommate— the boy appears in the doorway and pokes Dimah's shoulder. When he turns, he beckons him to the wall, and he kneels next to the vent on the floor. Dimah keeps standing, warily watching him.

The boy says a few encouraging words to the vent. There seems to be a tiny sigh. Then a girl's voice says in Japanese, "Are you okay?"

"Oh," Dimah says, unable to hold back his surprise. The blond boy doesn't speak Japanese, so he assumed that nobody else they took would. "Not really."

"I am sorry. It will be okay. My name is Issa. What is yours?"

"I am Dimah Petrakis," he says. The girl says something in English to the other boy. "Who is this with me?"

"He is Josh," Issa responds. Dimah glances at him, and he waves meekly. "I am sorry—my Japanese is not good."

"You seem to be doing okay," he tries.

"...My Japanese is not good," she repeats. He guesses that she doesn't understand what he told her.

"Where are we? Can you answer that?"

"Berlin, they said." She pauses for a second. "Is that possible for you? Where do you live?"

Dimah doesn't know what she means, so he just answers, "Moscow, in Russia."

"Moscow, in Russia," she repeats.

"Did you understand that?"

"Yes." There's a silence between them for a few moments. "...I am sorry you are here," she says after a while.

"I am sorry you are here, too."

"We will be okay," she assures him. "We will stay together. We will leave. Soon, I hope."

"...That is nice of you to say, but I do not believe you," Dimah sighs, sitting and putting his back to the wall.

"...My Japanese is not good," Issa says for a third time. After a moment more, she adds, "My friend here is Jia. She lives in China. I think one more person will come here."

Dimah looks around the room. There's three of everything, but only two boys. "Yes, that makes sense."

Neither of them know what to say for a long time. Josh takes over, and they talk in English for a while. "Are you really okay? Josh says you were... um...bzzz." Issa mimics the sound of a taser.

"I am okay," he confirms. In Russian, he mumbles, "...But I won't be if Father gets his hands on me...."

 

 

 

___

 

 

 

 

"One more to go," Germany sighs as he slips his hands into his leather gloves.

"Yeah, try not to be too rough on this one," Japan scolds lightly. He looks into the front seat at the third man seated in the passenger seat of the black van. "Italy, are you okay?"

Italy flinches. "Y—yeah. I'm okay."

"You're not chickening out, are you?" Germany asks, an edge creeping into his voice.

"No!" the redhead denies immediately. "No, it's just... I hate it when they scream. And cry. And this last one, Harvey Rouge—he looks like France, and I've always admired him, and I just—."

"Sounds like you're chickening out."

"No! No, I'm not!" He shakes his head nervously. "I'll just stop talking. I'll be okay; just do your thing."

"Alright," Germany says, dropping the issue. "Okay. There he is." I points to his left, out the driver's side window. Sure enough, a young boy with blond hair is exiting the Catholic school he attends, following a girl his age with dark skin and curly hair. "'Known associates: Jaqueline Riposte.' And an old bat from the nunnery. ...That's it? He doesn't hang out with anyone else? Geez, this kid needs some friends."

"Let's go, then," Japan says, exiting the van. He retrieves small box with a needle full of ketamine and slips it in his pocket.

"We already know that's him," Germany explains. "No use beating around the bush this time."

"Okay," Italy says quietly.

It goes about as smoothly as the rest of the kidnappings went until the very end. Harvey's friend, Jaqueline, is a lot feistier than the file mentioned—she follows, much like China's lookalike's friend did. But Jaqueline is a lot stronger than Mei, and louder.

"Shut her up!" Germany snarls at Japan.

"I'm trying— tch!" He hisses as the girl bites him. Japan assesses the captives. Harvey, while crying hysterically, is behaving himself. Jaqueline is not. So he thinks quickly and uses the ketamine on the girl instead.

It's a good thing that Germany has his hand over Harvey's mouth because the boy starts screaming when he sees his friend stop moving. He doesn't struggle to get away—he struggles to kneel by her side, and he panics when he's not allowed to.

"Why'd you do that?! Now he's going to see the teleportation!"

"We can just blindfold him," Japan dismisses. "Come on."

They drag Harvey to their van. Japan ties a cloth over his eyes, checks to make sure he's properly restrained and gagged, and buckles himself in for the bumpy car ride.

Ten minutes into the ride, Harvey is still screaming. "M—make him stop...!" Italy moans, covering his ears. Japan reaches into the back of the van and clamps his hand on the boy's shoulder, shushing him. He freezes, whimpering and crying as hard as he can with the tape over his mouth. "Are you sure you don't have any more ketamine?" Italy asks when he can still hear Harvey crying.

"Not with me," Japan says apologetically. Germany turns the radio all the way up. It blasts heavy guitar music, drowning out their captive's misery and terror.

"Alright, hold on to him; I'm teleporting," Germany says over the music.

Japan grips Harvey's shoulder tighter. The usual teleporting sensation washes over him—first, a bright light envelops them. Then, as they pass into the temporal rift, gravity increases, and it feels like they're falling. Then it stops as they reach their destination: a dirt road a few miles away from their lab.

Harvey is so shocked that he stops crying. He keeps completely silent until they park, and he whimpers again. Then he cries and hyperventilates as they make him walk.

"Should we leave him alone for a while? Let him calm down some?"

"Sure."

They take him to room 245 and lock him in. The cameras in there show that Harvey sits by the door for half an hour, curled into a sobbing ball. He spends five minutes exploring, then twenty minutes waiting tensely on the couch.

They bring Lieutenant Armond Blanc to translate. He is a short and plump man, but he's strong. He has olive skin and buzzed hair. He's clean-shaven. Blanc is renowned for his stoicism, which probably doesn't help ease their captive's nerves.

Harvey backs into the far corner when they come for him. Germany is about to grab him and drag him to room 87A, but Italy insists, "Please, we have time. Let's just try being nice for once! Let's let him decide to come with us."

"We can't just let him decide things, Feliciano," Germany rolls his eyes, switching names in front of human company. "He needs to learn respect. It's up to him how quickly he learns."

"Well, don't hurt him!"

"I won't unless he asks for it." Germany grabs the back of Harvey's jacket and pulls him out of the room, stopping only for Japan to fasten handcuffs around the boy's wrists.

"He begs for his release," Blanc translates. "It's hard to understand him because he's crying so hard."

"Try to reassure him his safety," Japan suggests. "We'd like for him to be coherent."

So Blanc tries, but Harvey isn't convinced in the slightest. "He asks about someone named Jaqueline. You apparently hurt her, and he's worried for her safety."

"We just knocked her out," Germany grunts. "She's fine. Or, she will be."

That placates Harvey slightly. He's still borderline-hyperventilating when they reach 87A. They tell him their normal spiel: they're not going to hurt him; he's going to participate in a test that will take a very long time; no, he can't go home; no, he can't make any phone calls; calm down, Mr. Rouge, calm down or we'll gag you; very good, and now we'll show you to your room.

 

  
___ 

 

 

**ISABELLA NICOLE PRYCE**

**CODENAME:** Lavender

**Birthday:**  July 1st

**Age** : 14

**Mother** : Michelle Elizabeth Sutherland Pryce; age 39

**Father** : David Alexander Pryce; Deceased at age 30

**Siblings** : Renae Elizabeth Pryce, age 9

**School** : District of Columbia in Washington High School

**Grade** : 9

 

**Report Card:**

**Math** : B-

**English** : A-

**Earth**   **Science** : B

**History** : A+

**Art** : A+

**Japanese** : A

**Physical**   **Education** : B-

 

**Personality Report:**

Isabella is a quiet girl who keeps to herself. She does not appear to have any close friends. She spends most of her time by herself in her room playing on her electronic devices. She is artistic, and she does well in classes. She is clever, so her intellect may pose as a problem.

 

**Threat Level** : Intermediate

 

**NOTES:**

Struggled harder than expected. She is observant, as well. Ludwig Beilschmidt strangled her briefly when she threw a cup of water at him. Her injuries are superficial and will heal fairly quickly.

She has made quick friends with Joshua Davies. It appears that she is protecting him.

 

 ___

 

**Joshua Nicholas Davies**

**CODENAME** : Jack

**Birthday:**  April 23rd

**Age:**  15

**Mother** : Janice Helena Smith Davies, age 50

**Father** : Jacob Beauregard Davies, age 55

**Siblings** : Gregory Beauregard Davies, age 21; John Robert Davies, age 18; Daniel Henry Davies, age 18

**School** : Boy's Academy of London

**Grade** : 9

 

**Report Card:**

**Maths** : C

**English** : C

**Science** : B

**History** : A

**Art** : D

**Physical**   **Education** : A

 

**Personality Report**

Joshua is a calm boy. He often spends his time at a park by his house. Close friends include: Ross Mellark and Cody Smee. He is average at school, excelling only in History and Physical Education. He is athletic but not strong.

 

**Threat Level** : Minimum

 

**NOTES:**

Became so upset he made himself vomit. He is very scared, and he is not likely to resist.

Became quick friends with Isabella Pryce. She appears to be protecting him.

 

 

 ___

 

**Jia Li**

**CODENAME** : Star

**Birthday:** October 1

**Age:**  16

**Mother:**  Ting Shuan, age 33

**Father** : Min Li, age 65

**Siblings** : Fai Li, age 3

**School:**  Beijing Secondary School

**Grade:**  10

 

**Report Card** :

**Maths:**  A

**Chinese:**  A

**Science:**  A

**History:** A

**Art:**  A

**Physical Education:** B

 

**Personality Report** :

Jia is a laid-back girl. She excels in school, but she struggles with physical education. Known associates include Mei Huing and Shen Xing. She appears to be shy and timid when confronted.

 

**Threat Level:**  Minimum

 

**NOTES** :

Jia would not speak to her translator for the first few minutes. She then started asking questions and protesting, trying to keep calm with visible effort. 

Made fast friends with Isabella Pryce. She appears to be protecting her.

 

 ___

 

 

**Dimah Nicolai Petrakis**

**CODENAME:**  Blizzard

**Birthday:** December 30

**Age:**  15

**Mother:**  Lana Petrakis, Deceased at age 36

**Father** : Dmitri Petrakis, age unknown

**Siblings:**  Vera Ursula Petrakis, age 20; Alina Lana Petrakis, age 6

**School:**  Unknown

**Grade:**  Unknown

 

**Report Card** : Unknown

 

**Personality Report:**

We could not get too close to Dimah without alerting his father, who heads an organization dedicated to tracking humanoid cryptids. We could also not get more information on the organization. He appears strong and dedicated. It is of no doubt that Dimah is well-trained and dangerous when angered.

 

**Threat Level** : Maximum

 

**NOTES** :

He was calmer than we predicted. Asked politely to go home at one point. When we refused, he became angry. If he were not restrained, he would have attacked.

He kicked Feliciano Vargas and was tased for his actions. He appears to be having some pain, but his injuries are not serious.

Was able to communicate partially with Isabella Pryce. She assured him that they were going to stay together. She appears to be protecting him.

 

 

 ___

 

 

**Harvey Michael Rouge**

**CODENAME:**  Gaul

**Birthday:** July 14

**Age** : 14

**Mother:** Unknown

**Father:**  Unknown

**Siblings** : Unknown

**School:**  Saint Peter's Academy for Boys and Girls

**Grade** : 9

 

**Report Card:**

**Maths:** B

**French:** B

**Science:** A

**History:** B-

**Music:**  A

**Physical Education:**  B

 

**Personality Report:**

Harvey keeps to himself. His closest friend is Jaqueline Riposte. He lives at the St. Peter orphanage, and he spends time with Sister Mary, an elderly nun.

 

**Threat Level:**  Minimum

 

**NOTES:**

Far more emotional than any of the other subjects. Was hysterical and unable to be calmed for about 15 minutes. We had to sedate his friend during his abduction, and he is worried for her.

He partially understands English. Made fast friends with Joshua Davies and Isabella Pryce. She appears to be protecting him.

 


	4. Respect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: rape

Jia is unconscious when they bring her in. Germany, carrying her, sighs and scowls when he sees the state of the room, and he places her gently on one of the stripped mattresses. He and his entourage leave, but he glares at me, and I return it with equal ferocity. I don't move until they're completely gone, though. 

I didn't know her name then. I sit and wait for about an hour before she wakes up. She freaks out, of course, screaming and pounding on the door for a good ten minutes before she lets me hug her. She spends the next half-hour crying on my shoulder until she decides to explore. 

About an hour later, Jia Li and I both stiffen; there are footsteps right outside. The lock clicks. The door creaks open, revealing only Germany.

We stand up in unison. He seems impatient. Jia Li glances at me, scared. He marches in, all business, as usual. It's clear he's going for her, so, before he reaches her, I rush over and stand directly in his way.

Jia Li puts her hand on my shoulder. I glance at her, and she shakes her head solemnly, moving in front of me. I don't know what to do; she wants to comply with him, and I don't. Should I forcibly keep her from going? Should I let my fears dictate her? I mean, I don't think she'll appreciate having her hair cut, but they did say I only got hurt because I resisted. If she's complacent, maybe they won't hurt her....

So I stand helplessly where I am, watching her leave with the dangerous man. Ludwig narrows his eyes at me as he exits, as if he's silently warning me not to try anything.

Huffing, I sit down by the vent. "Are you awake?" I ask the grate.

"Mmmm, kinda," Josh answers, voice slurred with fatigue.

"Germany just came by and took Jia Li," I inform him. "I think he's going to cut her hair." Josh hums, acknowledging me but not giving any hints about his opinion. "...Should I have stopped him?"

"...I don't know," he says, and there's a sound like him shifting.

"I don't think they'd hurt her unless she started fighting back. She went willingly, so I don't think they will."

"Maybe that's good."

"I don't like it." I cross my arms around my pillow, drawing my knees in close.

"Me neither. But at least we're not seriously hurt. I really think it's better to just do what they say, Issa."

I acknowledge his comment with a groan of displeasure. "...I can't," I lament. "I can't just sit here and let them do what they want to me. I  _won't_. This is  _wrong_."

"I know!" he tries to amend. "I hate this just as much as you do, but I don't want to be beaten into submission."

"Me neither, but if I see a chance to escape, I'm going to take it. If that means bashing one of their brains in, then that's what I'm going to do. I'm  _not_ staying here, Josh. I  _can't_." Frustration brings tears to my eyes.

He hesitates. "You'd kill someone?"

"If that's what it takes to get out of here, yes." I don't like the idea of ending someone's life, but I really believe that if it came down to it, I would.

"...I can't tell if that's really brave or really stupid."

"You think doing whatever it takes to escape is  _stupid_?" I ask, irritated. "Do you  _want_  to be here forever?"

"No! Of course not! I—I just don't think—I don't think that I could—y'know—... _murder_  someone...." I can hear the thickness in his voice. "I'm really, really scared, Issa. I just think killing someone is... a little bit...too much...."

I don't want to upset him, but I'm still really pissed off. "It wouldn't be murder."

"I think you're wrong...."

I know I shouldn't, but I lash out at him, "Then you might as well be stuck here forever! You're letting them walk all over you! If they won't let us go, we're going to have to break out, and if it comes down to freedom or an  _evil_  person's life, I'm  _going_  to kill him! They don't care about us! Why should we care about  _them_?!"

He doesn't answer for a while. I don't say anything, either. Angry tears cascade down my face, and I take off my glasses to protect the lenses from the saline.

When Josh finally responds, I can tell he's crying, too. "I'm sorry—but as wrong as this is, this—this—this  _thing_  they have prepared for us—.... As wrong as it is, killing is wrong, too."

"Oh, don't even  _start_  with that whole 'two wrongs don't make a right' BS!" I fume. "It's not exactly like we have the luxury of taking the moral high ground in this situation! This is  _war_ , Josh! What do you think they're going to do to us when they're done with their tests, huh? Take us back home, where we can find them and send the police after them? No! They're going to— "My voice breaks, rising in intensity until I'm almost screaming at him. "They're going to  _kill_  us, Josh! They're going to  _kill_  us!" I press my palms into my eyes as my words break off into a hysterical sob.

"Th—they said—they wouldn't— "he stutters tearfully.

"Are you really going to  _believe_  them?" I ask, trying to wipe away the water from my face. "If you see an opportunity to escape, you have to take it! Okay?" He doesn't respond, so I add forcefully, " _Okay?!_ "

"Okay! Fine!" he sobs. "Please, stop yelling at me! I—I can't handle this right now!"

I hate that I made him cry, but if that's what it takes to talk some sense into him, then I'll live with it. I don't apologize; I just stand up and walk back to my seat in the windowsill, wrapping myself back up into the blanket so I can continue crying in peace.

Eventually, Jia Li comes back. The man that closes the door behind her looks Chinese, too. I bet he's her translator, and she's about as up to speed with this whole situation as we are. Her hair is shorter than it was, but still long compared to mine. They've even tied it back in a low ponytail. She looks despondent, wrapping her arms around herself and sitting on the couch after barely glancing my way. I want to go and comfort her, but I don't. I stay in my little nook and let the tears continue falling.   
  
  
  


I only realize I've been asleep when someone wakes me, shaking my shoulder. I'm scared, but I don't bother recoiling when I realize it's Hughes. "Wake up," he says. "Get dressed."

I rub my stinging eyes. "I  _am_ dressed."

"Put these on," he commands, shoving a bundle of clothes into my arms. It's the navy blue jumpsuit and white shirt. He also handed me a fresh pair of underwear and a bra.

I look over his shoulder. Jia Li is wearing her uniform, standing uncertainly next to the man I think is her translator.

"Why?" I ask.

"Because," he responds.

I sigh and glower at him, but I'm too tired to resist. It's not that big a deal, I guess. If they want me to wear this stupid outfit, what's the point in fighting it? It's just clothes, and I'm going to need something to change into soon. So I stalk past him into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. I swiftly strip and re-clothe myself, feeling uncomfortable about being naked in this unfamiliar place.

Hughes seems almost baffled at my compliance, but he accepts it anyway. I guess he was expecting a fight. I'll put my foot down when I feel like it, but right now, I'm just too tired. He starts to grab my arm, but I flinch away. "I can walk myself," I mutter. Then, I notice the shackles in his other hand. "Oh."

"Don't make this harder than it needs to be," he says, reaching for my arm again. "It's a necessary precaution."

I don't like it, but I allow him to fasten the cuffs around my wrists. "Ooh, let's all take  _necessary precautions_  against the  _fourteen-year-old_. She's so  _dangerous_ ," I mock nonetheless. "Yeah, right."

"We heard your conversation last night," he informs me. "The one about how you'll do ' _whatever it takes_ ' to get away. Needless to say, we're not going to give any of you any opportunities." He takes my elbow and starts pulling me towards the door. Jia Li and her translator follow suit.

He takes me to a room two stories below my room. It's bustling with people in lab coats. Some sort of infirmary/ science experiment room, I guess. Then Hughes leaves. I glance at Jia Li, standing a few feet away from me, holding the chain of her handcuffs in shaking fingers.

A man with close-cut blond hair approaches me, holding a clipboard. "Stand against the wall," he instructs, pointing at a measuring chart.

I frown at him. I don't like where this is going. First, he's going to check my height. Then, maybe my weight, and then my blood pressure and temperature, but then what's next? A forced Pap smear? No, thanks. So, I stand my ground, silently protesting.

He's not fazed. He pushes me against the wall, firmly enough so I can't resist but gently enough so I don't get hurt. I grumble, but he's strong, and I guess taking my measurements can't hurt. According to him, I'm 173.7 centimeters, 60.3 kilos, with a temperature of 36 degrees Celsius and a blood pressure of 120/80. Healthy as a horse, I suppose. I don't know a lot about the metric system, though. Damn Europeans. 

"Now, I've heard you had a problem with your neck," he says, sitting me down on one of those paper-covered tables.

"If by 'problem' you mean that time your boss tried to strangle me, then yes," I answer testily.

"May I?" he asks, moving closer.

I jump to my feet, stepping away from him. "No," I quip. "You may not."

"Sit down and let him do his job, Miss Pryce," Hughes says. He has reappeared. Looking past him, I see Josh, similarly dressed, being measured for height across the room.

"You keep saying ' _job_ ' like it's supposed to excuse you guys," I point out, glaring at him. "If anything, that makes it worse. You're making money by doing this."

" _Sit down_ , Miss Pryce." The tone of his voice makes it clear that he's not going to ask again.

I tremble with rage and clench my fists, but I'm still kind of worried that Ludwig did damage my windpipes or vocal chords when he choked me. It still hurts, anyway, and the bruises his hands left are frighteningly dark on my pale skin. So I sit, but I'm not happy about it.

I can't help but flinch as the doctor gets in my personal space to probe at my neck, but he's gentle. Apparently, the bruising makes it look a lot worse than it is. He recommends I conserve my voice to prevent further damage to my vocal chords, but I choose to ignore him. I'm going to scream and talk back if I want to, even if it hurts.

"Let's listen to that heart of yours," the doctor says. He takes the collar of the jumpsuit, which I had buttoned all the way up, and he starts undoing them.

"Hey!" I cry, smacking his hands away. I jump up again, backing away as I start refastening my buttons. I know I have another shirt on underneath the suit's top, but don't like the idea of this stranger undressing me.

"I can't hear your heartbeat through your clothes, Miss Pryce," he points out, not fazed by my outburst.

I'm liking this physical exam less and less. But I sigh and grumble, unbuttoning the top of the jumpsuit so he can lift the back of the white shirt and press the circle of the stethoscope to my back. I shiver at its cold touch to my skin, feeling exposed despite being mostly covered.

"Heartbeat, normal. Breathing, normal," he muses to himself, jotting down notes on his clipboard. As soon as his hands retreat, I pull the jumpsuit back over my shoulders and button it all the way up to my neck.

He waves me off of the paper-covered table and ushers me into a nondescript chair close by. Then, he unlocks only one of my bracelets, chaining the other end to the chair. "I'm taking a blood sample," he informs me, pushing up my sleeve. 

"Uh, no you're  _not_ ," I answer, yanking my arm away. I get up, intending to just carry the chair, but it's bolted to the ground, leaving me stuck here. 

"Such a fiery young lady," he comments. "Sit down; this will be over quickly." 

"Look, man," I beg, "I don't wanna be here. Please, just  _leave me alone_." 

Before the doctor can answer, he looks past me at the presence that suddenly hovers over my shoulder. I turn, ready to glare down the man. It's Hughes. Looming over me, he grabs a handful of the fabric on my shoulder. " _Sit down_ ," he hisses at me, obviously fed up with my trouble. 

"Get  _off_ me," I snarl back,  grabbing his wrist.  

"The only methods of persuasion that you listen to are Mr. Beilschmidt's," he points out. "Shall I go get him? He's a very busy man; he won't enjoy being interrupted to control an unruly child," he threatens. 

I haven't seen any of them today; I wonder what their roles here are. But Hughes has pressed the right button—I'm terrified of Ludwig. Letting out a swear, I let my free hand drop to my side looking away. 

Almost sweetly, Hughes takes the time to smooth down the fabric of my shirt. "Good girl." 

I can't bring myself to make eye contact with him. He  _disgusts_  me.

I plop in the chair and let the doctor roll up my sleeve. Needles have always frightened me, but it's not like I have much of a choice, so I grit my teeth and sit through it as he collects his damn sample. I'm not sure if the doctor is trying to be friendly or condescending, but he presses a cotton ball over the mark and secures it with a pink band-aid. If I'm right, the five of us here are the only kids in this facility; why would they have colorful bandages if not for younger patients? 

When he refastens the handcuffs around my wrists, he waves over a different doctor, a man looking older than Hughes, which is saying something. The old guy takes my arm and sits me on his chair, looking at the first doctor's notes about me on the clipboard that he passed. I see that the first guy is busy examining Jia Li. I glance around the rest of the room. Josh is here, of course. There are two other boys that are dressed in navy blue jumpsuits, too. I think they are Harvey and Dimah, like Josh told me. Harvey is supposed to be France, and Dimah is supposed to be Russia. Harvey looks even more timid than Jia Li, and his hair is shorter than France's. I wonder what they're going to do about that. Dimah just looks  _pissed off_. I notice that his arms, still shackled with handcuffs, are bound to his side with a length of rope. An extra precaution, I guess, since it looks like Dimah can beat the hell out of anyone if he weren't tied up.

The older doctor doesn't seem to speak English, so he doesn't even try to communicate with me. He just pushes me back on the chair, laying me down. I don't like being on my back, so I try to sit back up. Hughes intervenes, though, grabbing a belt fastened to the sides of the chair, and buckling it around my stomach. "Hey!" I protest, unable to get up.

I try to kick him, but he moves out of range, up towards my head. He grabs my chin. "This is a dental examination. If you bite Dr. Hensel, there will be severe consequences." The look on his face is no-nonsense, and I'm scared to think of what punishments he can come up with. So, when he releases my face, I don't respond. The dentist's utensils hover close to my lips, still clenched shut. It's fear that makes me slowly release the tension in my jaw and open my mouth.

I suppose it's no worse than any other dental check-up. He notes the permanent retainer cemented to the backs of my teeth, but doesn't try removing them. Good, I don't want braces again. The fluoride he uses to clean my teeth is probably the worst flavor he could have picked, but I sit through it. He pokes at my gums, and he probably says "You're bleeding because you don't floss" in German. But, other than that, my teeth are fine.

Hughes unclips the belt, allowing me to sit up. The dentist passes my clipboard to the next doctor, who sits me on his chair. This one's an eye exam. I learn that I actually need glasses to correct my impaired vision. Who knew!

The next doctor looks inside my ears. Another hits my knee with a little hammer to test my reflexes. When I'm at this station, someone  _other_  than me decides to make a commotion at the station a few down from me—Dimah. The doctor is trying to roll up his sleeve to take a blood sample, and the boy is having  _none_  of that. He stands up and yanks on the chain connecting him to the chair, but it doesn't let him go. He's shouting at the doctor, but I think he and his translator are the only two who can speak Russian. 

If it's possible, his translator is even meaner than Hughes. It looks like he's threatening Dimah with a stun-gun— I see him let loose a sample of the Taser's power, and the crackle of electricity catches the attention of everyone in the room.  Dimah breathes heavily as he considers his options— be compliant or be electrocuted. I guess he decides to be compliant, because he very reluctantly sits. 

When the doctor rolls up Dimah's sleeve, something must be wrong. I have to crane my neck to see. Dimah's arm is covered with cuts—some old, some new, some big, some small, some shallow, but most of them pretty deep. His translator asks about it, but Dimah clams up, refusing to answer or even acknowledge him. Did he do that to himself? 

It's a problem, for sure. But it's not my problem; this doctor is done with me, and he passes me to the next one. 

The next one leads me to a little mini-room in the very back, saying something to Hughes, who comes over and unlocks my handcuffs. "Are you wearing any metal?" he asks me.

"I—I mean, my necklace, but— "I stutter, reaching up to cover it. A small, almost circular leaf dangles from a chain around my neck. The charm itself is made of a light brown wood. A thick line separates the leaf in two, curving down to form a dull point, matching the zigzag of the edges leading up to it. I've always had it; I've worn it so often that I've had to replace the chain more than once. I just feel naked without it.

Hughes holds his hand out palm-up. I tighten my fist around it protectively and glare at him, but he isn't fazed. "I'll give it right back."

Sighing in defeat, I reach behind my neck to unclasp the chain, which is harder than usual because I chewed my fingernails to stubs. Hesitating, I hold the pendant, feeling it with my thumb, before finally complying and dropping it into Hughes's hand.

He thanks me and walks away a few feet. "Wait, what's—?" I try to ask. A soldier sits me onto a plain, white table, forcing me to lie on my back. Before I can get up, he slips my wrists into a loop on either side of the table. Then, he fastens two belts across my ankles and waist. Finally, he removes my glasses and secures a final strap across my forehead, holding me completely still. "Wait, wait, wait— "

The table moves, pulling me into a tube. It's an MRI machine, I think. They're probably just scanning me for any unforeseen illnesses, which would be news to me. This is my first time in one of these things, and I don't like it. I'm not usually claustrophobic, but I can't say that I particularly enjoy being strapped to a table and run through a tube full of flashing lights and deafening whirring noises. It probably isn't that long until they let me out, but it seems like I was in there forever.

After unbuckling me, the soldier waves me up and puts my glasses back into my hands, which I immediately shove onto my face. Then, I look around expectantly for my necklace. The guy refastens the handcuffs around my wrists.

Hughes walks up to me, holding an end of the chain in either hand. I would really rather prefer to put it on myself, but I don't have that option with my shackles back on. So, reluctantly, I let Hughes put my pendant back around my neck. 

For an uncomfortable moment, he lingers in my personal space.

Josh is starting to misbehave, but not at the level of me or Dimah. He's upset that they're trying to take his braces off. Hughes leaves me to try to control him. 

I thought the MRI was going to be the worst part, but that was before they pulled me into a different part of the room sectioned off with a curtain. There's a woman doctor here. "Take off your clothes and lay down," she instructs me, unlocking my handcuffs again.

This whole experience, being passed from doctor to doctor to doctor, has disoriented me a little bit, so I don't register her commands at first. "What? No!"

"I am a gynecologist, Miss...Pryce," she says, checking my clipboard for my name. "You're scheduled for a mammogram and a Pap smear."

"No," I tell her again. "No, that's not happening."

"Miss Pryce," calls Hughes's disapproving voice.

"No!" I reiterate, pushing past the curtain. Hughes is right there, blocking my way, so I don't go very far. "No, no,  _no_. I've had it up to  _here_  with these checkups and physicals and tests, and this is the last straw! There is no way I'm letting you people touch me! I'm done; I've had enough."

The General grabs my wrists harshly, and I wince. "You are  _not_  done here, Miss Pryce. Now, get back in there or suffer the consequences!"

"What are you going to do,  _kidnap me_?!" I ask, struggling to free myself. "How about you take a page from your boss's book and  _strangle_  me?!"

"He had an emotional outburst," Hughes says, keeping his grasp on me. "That was not supposed to happen to you."

"But it  _did_!" I fling back, my voice already starting to go hoarse.

"Stop making a scene," he scolds. The other doctors are looking at me now, not really paying attention to the other kids under their watch. "Do you want me to call Mr. Beilschmidt?" he threatens

"Go ahead!" I don't care what he might do; I'm  _not_  sitting through that. "Go ahead, call him! I'll tell him the same thing!" 

The Russia lookalike, seated at the eye exam station, uses my distraction to his advantage.

Even though he's bound more thoroughly than the others, he jumps to his feet and kicks the optometrist between his legs. Like a well-rehearsed fight scene, Dimah charges the soldier that tries to grab him. The soldier grasps the rope around his arms and torso, and Dimah drops to the ground, slipping out of the extra restraint. He wastes no time, sweeping his leg under the soldier's, effectively sending him to the ground, too.

I have to do something—I might not get another chance like this. Before I can move, though, Hughes grabs my right wrist and turns it counterclockwise. It's frighteningly effective—it rolls my shoulder forward, forcing me to bend. Grabbing my elbow, he pushes down, making me kneel and then lie down. I cry out in protest, but I don't struggle. It hurts—he could easily break my wrist. 

"Get off me!" I shout, slapping his shin with my free hand. It obviously doesn't hurt him, but he twists my arm a little bit more, making me wince. For rebellion's sake, I untie his shoe. He tells me to knock it off, and he steps on my hand.  

A roar of indignation resounds from across the room: Dimah has been outnumbered, pinned under a massive dogpile of soldiers. They wind rope around his torso again, securing his bound hands to his side again. His translator strides up to his struggling form, a syringe in hand, and he jabs him in the neck, pressing the plunger with his thumb. Slowly, Dimah stops fighting.

Glancing around helplessly, I see that soldiers have secured the other victims, even though none of them tried to break free. Jia Li and Harvey are very still, but Josh weakly squirms, our gazes locked. " _Stop fighting,"_  he mouths at me, his eyes pleading. 

Someone cuffs my wrists behind my back. I sigh shakily when Hughes lets go of me, but the relief dissipates quickly as they make me stand. Hughes grabs my chin and pushes me against the wall. "When will you learn that you  _cannot_  act this way?! You don't understand the importance of these tests!" 

"Then  _tell_  me why they're so important!" I manage, trying to break his grip. "Oh, wait— that's right— they're  _classified_! Don't you think I have the  _right_  to know what you assholes  _want_  from me?!" 

"You have  _no_  rights!" he flings back. "You are to follow our orders without question, or there will be consequences!" 

" _No_!" I shout. "I  _won't_! You're not the boss of me!" 

"Issa,  _stop_ ," Josh helplessly calls. He's tearing up, feebly tugging on the soldier's arm around his neck. 

"Whose side are you on?!" I yell at him. 

"Listen to Mr. Davies," Hughes suggests menacingly. 

I gather a mouthful of saliva and spit in his face. "Go to hell!" 

He seems to be radiating waves of pure rage. I notice a few soldiers shifting uncomfortably, like they know what happens when he's this mad. I learn quickly how he handles his anger. After he wipes the spit off his face, he grabs the front of my shirt and throws me to the ground. He's not as strong as Ludwig, but it still hurts. My hands are secured behind my back, so I can't break my fall. I land on my face, and something cracks. It might be my nose, judging by the rusty flavor I suddenly taste. 

I groan, trying to sit back up. My nose is definitely bleeding. My vision is blurry, too. Spitting blood out of my mouth, I turn back to Hughes. "Go  _fu_ —." 

" _Stop_ , Issa— _stop_!" Josh interrupts desperately. "You're making it worse!" 

 I try to keep shouting, but the soldier closest to me—I think he's the doctor that took my measurements and blood sample—presses a tissue against my nose, causing me to yelp. "Might I remind the General that the test subjects are to remain unharmed?" 

He heaves a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. He switches to German, saying something to the doctor. He also waves vaguely at Dimah, who's still unconscious. Then he storms out. Slowly, the other doctors in the room continue their examinations. A couple of soldiers grab Dimah and drag him out of the room.

The doctor that protected me helps me stand, and he walks me over to a chair. He removes my glasses, and I see that they're broken. Now that the source of my fury is gone, my adrenaline leaves, too, and I don't have the strength to keep myself from crying. 

"I wanna go home," I hear myself say. 

"I know," the doctor responds gently, wiping the blood off my face. 

"Please, help," I beg. 

His face is emotionless. He doesn't acknowledge me. "Your nose isn't broken, but it will be if you take one more hit." He folds a piece of gauze and secures it on the bridge of my nose to help cushion it from any more unwanted damage. "We can fix your glasses. The frame is broken, not the lenses. They will be returned to you later." 

He calls over a soldier, who grasps my arms and leads me away. This isn't the way back to my room—we're going down stairs instead of up.    

We go down a few floors until the shiny tile floor is replaced with rough concrete. It's colder down here than it was upstairs.

The man opens a cell, and, uncuffing me, slams the gates shut behind him, stranding me in this small, freezing room.

Dimah is here. He's in the cell next to mine. At least, I'm pretty sure it's Dimah—I still can't see very well. 

It's eerily still down here. The cold seems to seep in through the very walls, and the long sleeves of the jumpsuit does next to nothing to ease the chill. It's dim, but not quite dark, and the floor is dusty. The only sound I hear is the deep, easy breaths Dimah takes. 

I sit on the floor, focusing on his silhouette, hoping that trying to mimic the rise and fall of his chest will calm me. I messed up. But, thinking back on the incident, I can't imagine any other way to escape the situation without having to endure the embarrassing procedure. I can't make up any situation in which I allow that to happen to me, no matter how reluctantly I let it happen. I was  _not_  going to let those people touch me, and I'm not sorry for doing everything I could to stop them. I just wish they would have respected my decision, understood my fear.

But who am I kidding? They were never going to listen to me. I was right to resist. That was the only way.

Dimah's breath catches. Sluggishly, he lifts himself into a sitting position, groaning. He tries to cradle his head in his hands, but the rope stops him. Noticing it for the first time, he sighs, like it's more of an obstacle than anything truly restricting. I watch quietly as he fumbles around, trying to find the knot to free himself. It seems like his fine motor skills aren't working as well as they should.

Before I think this through, I clear my throat. Startled, his gaze snaps in my direction, landing almost accusingly on my form. "U—uh," I manage, "d—do you want some help?" The bars separating my cell from his keep me from moving all the way up to him, but I do scoot over to extend my hand between the gate.

He looks at me, then at my hand, and then at the rope around him. It seems to take a second to click, but he eventually nods, shuffling clumsily into my radius. I feel around for the knot, and it takes me a while to undo it; whoever tied this was a very good knot-maker.

He feels the rope slack, a useless coil wrapped half-heartedly around his waist. He looks at me again, and he says something like, " _Spasibo_." I think that means "Thanks" in Russian, so I nod and attempt a friendly smile, but it doesn't last long.

I lean against the bars, letting the cold metal sap my body heat, and I sigh, drawing my knees up to my chest. I shiver. Closing my eyes, I hope for an end, any end at all. Someone opening the door, telling us they're here to take us home. Someone opening the door and shooting me in the head. No one showing up, ever, and I either starve or get dehydrated or freeze to death. I just don't want to keep existing, not in this place. Not in this world, where things like this happen, and where people sit back and  _let_  things like this happen. As I feel my eyes well up with tears again, Dimah beats me to it: he emits a very quiet, very choked sob.

I straighten up to look at him, but he turns away, burying his face in his hands. Try as he might, he can't stop himself from shaking. Hesitantly, I reach through the bars and place my hand gently on his back.

He flinches away from me, twisting away from the bars to glare at me. I see his red-rimmed eyes narrow, but he's not mad at me. He's just mad at the world, like I am. I think he'd prefer to grieve alone, though, so I withdraw.

After a few moments, we're both sniffling, both from the cold and from our tears. I sit with my back against the bars, just letting gravity pull the water from my eyes. After a while, I rip the gauze off of my nose and flick it across the cell. 

It's my turn to be startled: Dimah has silently crept up to the border of his cell and reached through, placing his hand on top of mine. I jump, pivoting on my hip to face him, but I don't yank my hand away. In fact, I turn my hand up, letting our palms touch.

I'm curious. Gently, I run my other hand over his wrist, pushing my fingers past his sleeve. I feel the hard outline of a cut that hasn't healed. 

But he yanks his arm away from me, avoiding eye contact. "Sorry," I mumble. I put my hand back on the ground, palm-up—an invitation. Slowly, he slips his hand back into my grasp. 

Later, I realize how intimate a moment this is: two strangers, both hurting, finding comfort in each other through physical contact rather than words. There's nothing sexual or romantic about it; we're both in pain and terrified, and we both need a friendly touch. I'm very grateful that he's here, and it makes me feel a lot better that he's seeking comfort with me, as well.

Even with my sleep schedule so screwed up, all I know is that I'm exhausted, both physically and emotionally. I lay down again, hand still in Dimah's, closing my eyes. 

I'm so cold, so it's hard to fall asleep, but when I finally fall, I fall hard.   
  
  
  
  
  


The screeching, scraping sound of the cell door opening wakes me. Blearily, I prop myself up on an elbow, cupping my eyes to protect them from the harsh light pouring in.

"Good morning," says the last person I want to hear from right now. "I brought you a peace offering."

I sit up, unconvinced but curious, watching Hughes put a tray on the floor and sit down in front of it. He's sitting on the dirty, dusty floor, trying to level himself with me, trying to build rapport. I look at the tray. It's a plate of scrambled eggs, with toast and bacon on the side. I haven't eaten since lunch on the day this all happened. It seems so long ago; is it true that I've only been here for a day and a half?

"I would like to apologize for my behavior yesterday. I think we got off on the wrong foot," Hughes says. "We're not trying to hurt you here. We just want to study you. There's no need to fight."

I bring my palm up to my head, half-rubbing the sleep out of my face, half-covering the fact that I'm rolling my eyes. As calmly as I can, I answer, "We got off on the wrong foot the second your bosses tried to slit open my throat. There's nothing you can do to change that."

"Of course not," he answers, a little too quickly. "But is there anything I can do to make your stay here more comfortable?"

That hits a nerve. "Try not locking me in your dungeon," I deadpan, unimpressed. He's trying really hard to become my friend, but it's not working.

"Okay," he sighs, feigning defeat. "I understand." He nudges the tray closer to me. "You should still eat something, though."

"I'm not hungry," I fib, trying to muffle the way my stomach growls. Squinting, I see that my repaired glasses are on the tray, so I take them, refusing to wince when my nose throbs in protest. 

This seems to amuse him. "Are you sure?"

I don't bother lying to him again, saying simply, "I don't accept food from strangers."

"We didn't do anything to it," he says.

"How stupid do you think I am?" I growl, letting my anger get the best of me. "You people already drugged me once. I'm not letting it happen again."

He frowns at me, and I see a crack in his professional mask. I really get under his skin. It must be hard for him to try to play nice with me, but I don't feel bad for him.

"Fine," he says, all air of pleasantry gone. "It's time for your next tests."

"Fine," I answer, glowering at him. I brandish my wrists at him, letting him cuff me. He walks over to Dimah's cell and opens it. Dimah's awake. I don't know for how long, but he doesn't look sleepy. He lets himself be restrained, too, by the his translator, who appeared the same time Hughes did. He talks to Dimah, who doesn't respond. 

They push us up the stairs, up three floors, before they march us down the hallway to the double doors at the end. It's some kind of rec room, I guess. "What's the test?" I ask dully.

"Do something," Hughes says vaguely. He unlocks my handcuffs and pushes me in the room. Dimah's translator does the same. Then, they close and lock the door. I glance around the room. There's a track around the perimeter, circling a basketball court. They put out a lot of sports equipment, like footballs, baseballs, tennis balls, et cetera. Josh, Harvey, and Jia Li are here.

"Issa!" Josh cries when he sees me. "Are you okay?"

I nod solemnly. "I'm not sorry," I blurt right away. "I would do it again." Jia Li hugs me, saying something in Chinese. I just nod and smile.

"I know you would," he says right away. "I still think it's stupid.... But I know I can't talk you out of it. I just don't think it's safe."

"None of this is safe, Josh," I lecture him. "I'd rather get hurt trying than not try at all."

"Okay," he answers. I can tell he's just dropping it for now, but I don't feel like arguing. He hesitates and says, "Look, they took my braces off." He bares his teeth, and they have indeed been stripped of metal. 

"Neat." I look around the room again. "So. 'Do something.' That's real... helpful."

"Wanna play basketball?" he asks.

"Nah," I reply, looking at the stack in the corner. "I've got a better idea." Giving him a mischievous smile, I walk over to the stacks of wrestling mats in the corner. They're piled up pretty high, but I manage to scurry my way up. Then, I just lie down, staring at the ceiling.

"What— "Josh huffs, heaving himself on top of my tower. "What are you doing?"

"Sleeping," I answer, as if it was obvious.

"Y'know, when they said 'do something' I thought it was pretty clear they meant 'do something athletic.'"

"Then they should have specified that." I grin, pleased at finding a loophole. "I'm tired. I slept in a dungeon. This is a lot comfier."

"You slept in a dungeon?" he asks, incredulous.

"Yeah. Not as fun as it sounds."

"It doesn't sound fun."

"There are worse places to sleep, I guess." I glance over at Dimah, who stands awkwardly off to the side of the track. "He and I had a heart-to-heart."

Josh looks at me and raises an eyebrow. "You speak Russian?"

"No," I answer. "We just cried a lot in front of each other. Same difference."

"You didn't even understand anything he said."

"Didn't need to. I know what his biggest problem is right now, and he knows mine, and we both were vulnerable and sobbing messes. It's the best conversation I've ever had with someone who doesn't speak English."

He shifts so he's lying on his stomach. "This is the biggest act of rebellion I've shown so far," he confesses.

"I know. Doesn't it feel great to stick it to the man?"

"Yes and no...," he muses. "I'm getting that whole, 'wow, I'm a rule-breaker' kind of rush, but I'm still scared...."

"Hey, they said to do something." I stretch and yawn. "Sleeping is something. Technically, you're not even rebelling."

"I mean, I guess," he mumbles, yawning as well.

There's a loud crackle of a loudspeaker turning on. "Miss Pryce, Mr. Davies, get down from there," Hughes's voice booms.

"Come in here and make me!" I crow back, not caring about the consequences.

"Come on, Issa," Josh whispers, obediently climbing down from our perch.

I roll my eyes at him, but I slide down nonetheless. "I hate exercising."

He nudges me, eyes twinkling. "They never said to exercise."

I return his grin. "They sure didn't."

"C'mon," he insists. "Play basketball with me." 

"Fine," I relent. "Lemme just tell you right now— I'm not good at it." 

"Then I guess they'll have to write that down on your clipboard," he says, passing the orange ball to me. 

I catch it and bounce it against the ground a few times before drawing up and shooting it at the basket. It hits the rim and bounces away. "Told you." 

"It's not about being good at it," he tells me, jogging to retrieve it. "It's about being bad at it with other people." 

I laugh. "Good philosophy." 

I don't know how long they leave us to our own devices. Eventually, Josh and I get bored of our game and just sit on the court, rolling the ball back and forth. Harvey kind of understands English, so he joins us. "N—nice to meet you," he says uncertainly and with a heavy French accent. "I—I mean,  _merde_ , it is not nice to meet you  _here_ , in this place, b—but—"

"It's okay, Harvey," I cut in. "I understand. It's nice to meet you, too." 

We're in here for a long while more. Dimah found some boxing gloves and a punching bag, so I'd say he was pretty happy with this test. Jia Li entertained herself quietly by bouncing a tennis ball against the wall for, like, the entire time. I don't think she's very athletic, either.

After they came back into the gym to handcuff us again, they brought us to our rooms to shower, I guess. That only really applied to the boys, who actually worked up a sweat. I'm feeling kind of dirty, though, after spending the night on the dusty cement floor. I just have to work up the courage to actually use the shower. Changing clothes in there is one thing; being naked for an extended amount of time is another. And after going through such lengths to protect my privacy yesterday, I'm a little worried they might try to violate me again. So, paranoid, I shut the door and turn the water on so it sounds like I'm showering. I leave my clothes on, sticking my head under the faucet to wash my hair. I'll use a rag and soap to wash my body later.

I step out of the bathroom, towel-drying my hair. I tied the jumpsuit's sleeves around my waist, sporting the white T-shirt underneath. I barely sit down on my windowsill when the door opens, and I freeze. Ludwig, Kiku, Feliciano, and Hughes walk in. I haven't seen any of the first three lately. What do they want?

"Well, if it isn't Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dum, and Tweedle Dumber," I quip, trying not to show my fear.

"Come with us," Kiku says with Hughes's voice.

I throw my towel on the floor. "No, thanks." My hair, still wet, sticks up in random places, a side effect of having so much of it cut off at once. The hair close to the roots isn't used to being so light, so it springs up. I don't like it, but, then again, I don't like having my hair this short to begin with.

Ludwig, as usual, doesn't take "no" for an answer. He marches right up, grabs my arm, and yanks me out the door. Without showing my panic, I pry at his grip, but I don't fight very hard. I restrained myself pretty well, all things considered. 

They lead/drag me to the interrogation room. I plop right down in the chair on the far side of the table without being invited. "You've been quite the little troublemaker," Ludwig notes.

"I don't like being told what to do," I answer simply, crossing my arms. They left me unrestrained for once.

"It says here," Kiku states, pointing at a piece of paper, "that you refused to take two medical examinations." That must be the paper on the clipboard the doctors were passing around.

"Yeah," I nod.

"Why?"

" _Why_?" I repeat, disbelieving. "You wanna know why I didn't want to take a mammogram and a Pap smear?" I shake my head at them. "You wanna know why a scared little girl didn't immediately take her clothes off just because your scientists asked nicely?"

"It's not about the tests," Ludwig says, glowering. "It's that you refused to take them, made a distraction that allowed the other boy to injure a doctor."

"So? You guys are hurting us way more than we could ever hurt you."

"You have no respect for authority."

I laugh, finding his statement completely unreasonable. "I respect authority. I just don't respect you people." Shaking my head, I continue. "You guys went about this  _so wrong_. If you wanted to know all these things about us, you could have contacted us and  _asked_. Instead, you went out of your way to traumatize us. And now you want us to just bow down and worship the ground you walk on? No. You don't  _deserve_  my respect."

I wait patiently as Hughes gives them the gist of my speech. Ludwig opens his mouth to retaliate, but I cut in. "And you can't do anything to me, either. Whatever you try to do to me is going to affect your stupid test results, won't it? You guys need me in one piece."

His bitter silence tells me that I'm right.

"Everything you say and do helps us with our analysis," Kiku supplies.

"Your results are gonna be skewed," I answer. "I don't act like this at home." He nods to himself, starting to jot down a note on my clipboard. "Or do I?" I add, tilting my head and trying my hardest not to smirk at them. Kiku frowns at me, hesitates, and scribbles out what he wrote.

"See, this is what I'm talking about," I continue. "You guys don't know anything about me. You don't know how I normally act; you only know what I act like when I'm scared or angry. And if you try to beat the attitude out of me, you're only going to see what I'm like when I'm submissive. No matter what you do, you're not going to get the real me, so this whole test thing is really, really dumb." I shake my head, sighing. "Maybe you could have if you had just asked for my cooperation instead of abducting me. But we'll never know now, will we?"

"Now you're just acting like a brat," Ludwig says, glaring at me.

"Sticks and stones," I reply without missing a beat.

"You're going to do what we say," he growls, standing. "Or else."

"Or else what?" I snarl, remaining seated even as he slowly circles to my side of the table.

Kiku says something to him warningly, like he's expecting his companion to have another "emotional outburst."

I'm still pissed at them, so I decide to poke at him some more. "Or else  _what_?!" I demand. "What can you do to me that you haven't already done, huh!? What can you do to me that won't screw up your damn test?!"

Ludwig grabs the collar of the white shirt, yanking me to my feet. He rumbles at me in German, but I talk over him. "This again? I'm not scared of you!" Kiku and Hughes both try to talk him down. For a moment, surprisingly, he does. 

No, he's not calm quite yet; he's curious. Embedded in the handful of cloth, he grabbed my necklace. He sticks his hand down my shirt to better look at it. He ignores my resentful shout, turning the charm around in his palm. The others don't move, like they're afraid they'll make him angry again if they move.  _I,_  on the other hand, just want him to leave me and my necklace alone, so I yank it away from his grasp, kicking at his legs. 

He seems to remember that he's mad at me. He lifts me by the collar of my shirt and throws me against the wall. I wince as my back contacts the hard surface. He wastes no time pinning me, his left hand secured around my neck, his right digging in his pocket. I thrash against his grip, trying to loosen his fingers. He's holding my throat tightly enough to hurt, but not hard enough to block all airflow. Kiku and Hughes are both on their feet, trying to get him off me.

Before they even make it around their side of the table, Ludwig has what it is he was looking for in his pocket: a switchblade. He flips it open with his thumb, holding the sharp edge against my cheek. One hand still tugging at his hold on my neck, I use my other one to push on his wrist. There's an intense, almost intimate moment where we just glare at each other, not breaking eye contact.

"I'm not scared of you," I lie again, voice raspy and trembling as my eyes fill with tears. I think I'm trying to convince myself of that.

I think it's the defiant fire in my unblinking gaze that breaks his control, and he brings his hand against my face.

His blow knocks me off-balance, and I fall to the ground, hitting my head on the perpendicular wall. For a split-second, shock numbs me. Then the pain rushes in all at once. After my initial surprised cry, I have to release another whimper, pressing my palm against the sore spot on my left cheek. Kiku pushes Ludwig away from me, and Hughes kneels next to me, trying to get me to move my hand.

Indignant rage buries my terror and pain. I shove Hughes away from me as I get back on my feet, and I immediately jump at my attacker, swinging my fists at him. Some punches make contact, but most don't. "What the  _hell_  was that for?!" I scream at him. With this next punch, pain shoots through my knuckles, and I yelp. But that blow busted his bottom lip. 

Suddenly, there's a small hiss, like steam escaping a kettle, and something zaps both of us.  

Kiku uses our surprise to his advantage, extending his arms in either direction, pushing us away from each other. Hughes helps, grabbing me from behind and yanking me back.

He drags me out of the room, and I'm still fighting his grasp. "Let me go! Let  _go_!  _Get your hands off me_!" He doesn't. He just keeps marching, pulling me with him. I'm  _so much weaker_  than him, and it's  _embarrassing_. I  _hate_  this!

We only go one floor down when he releases me into a room. It's a room like a hospital, cots lining one side of the wall, the overwhelming scent of sterile equipment assaulting my senses. My legs, acting on their own accord, lead me to one of the cots, and I sit down without being invited. I look at my hands, surprised to find them stained red. Shakily, I probe my cheek, hissing as I feel the cut. Warm, sticky liquid drips down the side of my face, rolling in droplets down my neck and onto my shirt. My vision blurs, and I suddenly realize I'm crying. I think I have been for a while, but I didn't realize it until now.

"Let me see," Hughes says, standing above me.

I curl down, covering my head with my hands, trying hard to control the sobs wracking through my body, but to no avail.

He sucks air through his teeth, making a "tsk" sound. He steps away for a second, but he comes back, trying to slip his hand under mine. I flinch away from him, standing back up. "Don't touch me," I manage in between gasping cries.

"You're getting blood everywhere," he replies simply, gesturing at the wet wipe he holds.

"I don't care!" I shout back.

"Sit down, Isabella," he sighs. "Let me clean your wound." I shake my head vigorously at him. "Do you want it to get infected?"

"Why does it matter?!" I demand. "You're just going to kill me eventually! Stop beating around the bush and just  _do it_  already!"

"We're not going to kill you," he replies patiently. "Try to calm down."

"I'd rather you shoot me right now than make me stay here for one more minute!" I shout back, ignoring his last statement. "I  _want_  you to kill me! I can't stay here! One way or another, I'm getting out!"

"You're not done with your testing."

"Why is this so important?!" I yell, voice going hoarse again. "Why the  _hell_  is this so important?! There's  _nothing_  special about me!"

The door opens behind him. I expect Ludwig, back for another round, but's it's a doctor I vaguely remember from yesterday. Hughes talks to him in German, not looking at me.

"Okay, Miss Pryce," the new guy says, far too chipper. He puts on some rubber gloves. "Let's see that cut."

" _No_." I stand my ground, shaking my head, sending some blood drops from my face.

"Don't you want it to feel better?"

" _No_."

"Yes, you do. Come on."

He's right; I do. It really,  _really_  hurts. My hands hurt, too, and my neck. A fresh wave of tears start as I reluctantly give in and sit on the cot in front of the man. He seems a little unsure of himself, maybe not quite sure if he should say anything comforting or not.

The first thing he does is mop the liquid from my palms. He flips my hands over to look at my knuckles, particularly on my right hand. Gently pressing on them with his thumb, he asks, "Does this hurt?" I hiss in pain— now that he's drawn attention to it, I realize that it  _does_  hurt.  I did get a few good punches in at Ludwig, but I probably hurt myself more than I hurt him. The doctor nods, walking across the room to a large cabinet, and he comes back with an Ace bandage, with which he binds my hand. "I can't tell without an X-ray, but it might be fractured," he tells me. 

He instructs me to lie back on the cot, and then he turns around for something else in the drawers. I hesitate in following his orders. I don't like being in such a vulnerable position. Instead, remaining sitting, I finally speak up. "Your bosses kidnapped me." My voice is strained and fragile, almost a plaintive whisper.

Hughes clears his throat from across the room, and he says something sternly to the doctor.

He looks at me, his face unemotional, and he doesn't acknowledge my words. "Lie down, please," he tells me again.

"I'm fourteen," I tell him. "I'm just a kid, and I'm scared." My tears had stopped for a few minutes, but they prick at my eyes again. He shushes me, keeping his gentle demeanor. "I don't know where I am. I don't know why I'm here. I—I don't know what you people  _want_ from me." My voice breaks. "I need my mom...."

Firmly, but not harshly, he pushes me on my back, tugging my glasses carefully off the bridge of my nose and placing them on the night stand to my left. "I'm very sorry, Miss Pryce," he says, cleaning my face with a clean rag. "But there's nothing I can do."

I shakily exhale, breath catching on a sob. Of course. He's not going to help me. I shouldn't have even gotten my hopes up.

After he clears my face of blood, he pokes me with a syringe. "Anesthesia," he informs me, pressing the plunger. It's supposed to numb me, I guess, but I still feel it every time he sticks the needle into my skin. There's nothing for me to do. So I just lie there, trying as hard as I can to ignore the stabbing pain lacing its way up and down an already sore spot.

It seems like an eternity before he finally moves away, pulling off his bloodied gloves. "Five stitches." I slowly reach up to feel it. "Don't touch," he reprimands me, swatting at my hands. I start to sit up, but he stops me again. "Stay down. You need rest."

As much as I hate to agree with him, I am extremely exhausted, wiped out from today's stress. I have no idea what time it is, but I could definitely lie down and sleep for eight or nine hours.

And, just like that, the doctor cleans up his stuff and walks out, leaving me alone with Hughes.

He walks over to the cupboard and pulls out a folded-up cloth. "Here," he says, handing them to me. "Change into these, and I'll have your clothes washed." He pulls a curtain along the roads in the ceiling, giving me a little bit of privacy.

I'm too numb to fight back. Plus, I don't feel like walking around in a bloodstained shirt. So, I shakily slip my shirt over my hurting face, placing it next to me on the cot. I put one of the dressing gowns on backwards, like a robe, and I put a second one on the way you're supposed to wear these things. This way I won't have my backside exposed if I need to get up. I leave on my bra and underwear; I'm definitely not going to go commando in here.

"Are you finished?" Hughes asks.

"Yes," I whisper. He takes the shirt and jumpsuit from me. I had to take off my shoes to get the pants off, so I leave those on the floor. I take the socks off just because I hate having my feet confined, and I stuff them in the respective shoe. He leaves those be.

He pulls the curtains back where they were. Then, he pulls his handcuffs out of his pocket, attaching one to my left wrist and the other to the cot. "I'll be right back," he says, turning and leaving. I understand why he felt the need to restrain me; even in my weakened, tired state, I would have gotten up and looked through the cupboards and drawers, which I guess he doesn't want.

As the door clicks closed behind him, I make myself comfortable on the bed, pulling my knees into the gown and leaning against the wall. This whole face-injury thing is throwing me off; the way I'm handcuffed, I want to lie on my left side to avoid having to twist my arm behind my back, but I can't because the stupid cut is on my left cheek.

Hughes eventually returns, carrying a tray. "You need to eat something," he tells me, offering it to me. It's a PB&J sandwich. I want to insist that I'm not eating anything he tries to give me, but I really don't feel like talking or getting into an argument right now. So, I silently turn away from him, hugging a pillow to my chest.

He sighs, getting my message. "Do you ever get tired of being difficult?" His words rub me the wrong way. Not a great way to try to get me to cooperate with him. "You're going to need to eat eventually. Don't be so childish."

"You still don't get it," I groan, wiping my eyes with my bandaged hand. "I can't stay here. One way or another, I'm getting out of here."

"So we should put you on 24/7 suicide watch?" I can tell it's just an idle threat.

"I thought you were  _already_ watching me 24/7."

"There's no way to die while we're around, so there's no reason to starve yourself. If we must, we'll inject you with the nutrients you need to stay alive." That threat isn't so idle; he's serious about this one. When I don't respond, he sets the tray down on the bed next to me.

As exhausted and miserable as I am, my anger still sparks. Like a cat, I put my hand on the edge of the plate. Then, before he can stop me, I shove it off the side of the cot. It breaks, but doesn't shatter like glass. It's more of a clean cut right down the middle.

I swear, that was his second-to-last nerve, judging on his cry of anger and how his fist trembles at his side. If he weren't so professional, he probably would have hit me. Getting on his last nerve would probably end in violence.

He takes a few seconds to breathe deeply, and he grabs a dustpan from across the room, bringing it over to sweep any shards of glass from the floor, and he dumps its contents in the trash. "One day," he huffs, still livid. "One day, you're going to learn to respect us."

I'm tired of arguing. I'm tired of crying. I'm just tired in general. I turn away from him, still curled in a ball. I hear the door open and close again, and when I glance over, he's gone. Sighing, I lie down on my back, crawling under the scratchy hospital sheet. The restraint bugs me, but there's nothing I can do about it, so I leave it alone. My chin trembles, and I close my eyes. I seem to have cried myself dry, so the only thing left for me to do is retreat into unconsciousness.   
  
  
  


I sleep fitfully. The lights bother me, seeming to bore straight through my eyelids. More than once I've forgotten about my cut and tried to lie on my left side. One time when I resurface, a migraine has taken over my thoughts, and it takes a long time to slip under again.

I wake up for good when I feel someone's hand on my left arm. Without thinking, I slap at it, hearing the sharp smack of skin on skin. The hand retreats. I heave myself into a sitting position, my bandaged hand on my forehead. My headache hasn't gone away, and the pain on my face has faded into an insistent burn, not quite the sharp twinge it was yesterday.

"Hello," a voice greets me in a heavy German accent. "Be still, please." The hand returns, rubbing something wet on the inside of my elbow.

"What're you doing?" I slur. "Get off me...."

"Be still," the man issues simply. A sharp pain lances through my arm, and I try to move it away, but he won't let me go.

"Ow," I complain, letting my right hand pull weakly on his. A cold rush seems to radiate from my elbow. Annoyed, I look at it. The man has inserted an IV needle into the crook of my arm.

"You're very dehydrated," he explains. "This will help." Reaching to his side, he puts a piece of medical tape over the entrance point on the needle. "Now, don't bend your arm, unless you want the needle to break inside your vein." Fiddling with the bag of fluids on the pole, he continues. "I'm also giving you some mild painkillers."

"Thank you," I tell him quietly. Everything hurts, so I welcome anything to get rid of the pain.

"Hold this," he instructs next, handing me an ice pack. "To keep down the swelling." I nod and press the pack against my face, sighing in relief. The cold stings, but it also numbs.

This guy looks friendly, and I really want to just break down and beg for him to let me go. But I know better. He's not going to help me. No one is. No one's coming for me.   
  
  
  


The door opens after a while. I have to grab my glasses to tell who it is. Its Josh. He smiles sadly when our eyes lock, but he waits for Hughes to uncuff him before he rushes over to me. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, still careful not to disturb the needle in my arm. "Are you okay?" he asks, sitting down next to me.

There's no bother trying to lie to him. "No."

"That looks really bad," he says, wincing sympathetically as he takes in the sight of my injury.

"Thanks," I answer sarcastically.

"What happened?"

"The usual." I don't meet his gaze. "I said something he didn't like; he got up in my face; I said something else he didn't like...and he had a knife and he just...." I look down, at my hands. Holding up my bandaged right one, I add, "I hit him back."

"Issa...," he says softly, taking my hand in his. "I know you don't want to hear this, but... this is why you can't fight them...."

I squeeze his fingers, looking seriously into his eyes, trying to get my point across. "This is why I  _have_  to fight them."

"I—I mean," he stutters, "I guess, but, still.... You're so much braver than me, Issa. I can't do what you do.... I—I'm not... I don't want to be hurt...."

"I'm not judging you for not fighting," I reassure him. "It  _is_ stupid to fight, I know. But—it just fires me up—I can't  _not_  fight, y'know? They're—they're  _evil_! I can't take that lying down; I just can't...." I move my hand out of his so I can rub my nose. "We're dealing with this differently, and that's okay. I know you want me to be safe, and I want you safe, too. It's just that our versions of  _safe_  are different, I think. Either way, there's going to be sacrifices.... If we do what they say, then we're completely under their control, and they can do what they want with us. If we don't, they're going to hurt us, but at least there's a higher chance of escape. That makes a difference to me. If there's a chance to get away, I'm going to take it...."

"Yeah," he says, nodding. "I guess I'm just hoping I can hold out until they get tired of me and let me go...." He hesitates. "Or...until they decide I'm not useful...and...they...kill me...."

"You're scared of dying," I note.

He gives me a funny look. "Of course. Aren't you?"

"No," I answer immediately. "'Getting away' from them includes the possibility of death, and I've come to terms with that." As wistful as I am about the experiences I might not get to enjoy, I think it's better to just be free of these people. Death might even be easier than escaping; I won't have to get over this, won't be plagued by the traumas that have happened here. ".... Honestly, it would be great to just fall asleep and not wake up."

"That's...," he frowns, taking my hand again. "That's really sad...."

"I know."

"You won't see your family again...."

That's what scares me about passing. If I had to die an untimely death, I would at least want to give them some sort of closure.... The way this happened, it was just a sudden, violent rip, and I was gone. I want to let them know I'm okay, that I never stopped thinking about them, that leaving this world is for the best.... I feel selfish for knowing that if I would leave them if I had the chance, but that doesn't change my mind. ".... I know."

He squeezes my fingers. "...Tell me about your family."

"I live with my mom and little sister in Washington DC," I say. "My sister's name is Renae. She's nine, and I love her more than anything else in the world. She was born too early, so she's got some health problems, but she's okay for the most part. I really, really miss them." A tear rolls down my cheek, but I don't bother stopping it.

Josh nods. "Dad's not in the picture?"

"No, uh," I answer, looking away. "No, h—he died. I don't wanna talk about it."

"Oh—okay," he says immediately. "I've got three older brothers—Greg, Danny, and John. We live in London with our parents." He gives a small laugh. "It's nice that you have such a good relationship with your sister; I'm  _always_  fighting with my brothers...."

"How old are you?"

"Fifteen," he answers. "Greg is twenty-one. Danny and John are twins, both eighteen." He's quiet for a moment, and then he adds, "Man, if I get out of here, I'm never going to fight with any of them ever again."

We can't think of anything else to talk about after that. We just sit there, hand in hand, until Hughes decides Josh has to leave.

"Bye," I whisper, hugging him.

"See you later," he corrects, returning the embrace. We share a smile, and then he's gone.   
  
  
  


I'm alone in the room for a long time after that. The handcuff tethering me to the bed is really getting on my nerves, so I fiddle with it. I know that I'm not going to be able to get out of it, but I still shake it, try to slip my wrist out of it, which, of course, doesn't work.

Eventually, the door opens again, and Hughes walks in, carefully closing the door behind him. I can't read his expression; he's not angry; he's not sad, not happy.... I can't tell. So I just eye him cautiously.

The first thing he does is draw the curtain around my bed. This is what he did when he wanted me to change, but he hasn't returned my clothes to me yet, and he doesn't have them now.

He doesn't explain what he's doing, and I'm confused. I don't want to initiate conversation with him, but I do. "What do you want?"

"You are right," he says simply.

"...About what?" I inquire warily. This is the first time he's agreed with me.

He fiddles with my IV bag, shooting a clear liquid into it with a syringe. I guess I have been feeling the hurt more; I'm definitely not saying no to more painkillers. "There's not really much to do to you to get you to behave without leaving lasting or permanent damage."

"Too little, too late," I remind him. This cut is going to leave a nasty scar, which is pretty permanent. I feel the fluid rush into my bloodstream, sending a shiver down my spine.

He circles me, watching me, deliberately taking his time. "Not much," he continues. "But there is one thing." I can't tell what he's getting to, and I still can't read his expression. This just makes me feel that much more helpless.

My eyes sting suddenly. "Oh, yeah?" I press, watching his slow, leisurely movements. I shift on the bed so I'm almost lying down.

He's enjoying this, making me probe for information. Some sort of sick power play, I guess. "A smart girl like you can't imagine a situation that would scare you into submission without leaving any marks?" he smirks.

I scoff, dismissing the compliment. "No, not right now...." I rub at my eyes, yawning. "'m too tired to think...."

A thought occurs to me, and everything falls into place. His expression, the way he's circling me,  _prowling_.... He had pulled the curtains closed, giving the two of us  _privacy_....

Horrified, I pull my legs closer to me, scooting away from him. "You  _wouldn't_."

"I  _would_ ," he assures me, eyes filled with hunger.

"I'll—I'll scream," I threaten, my voice shaking. My vision blurs. The sudden stress must be making me dizzy.

He just smiles smugly at me. "Soon, you won't be able to."

I don't know what he's talking about at first. Then, I gasp and stare at the IV needle, terror seizing me for a moment. That's why I'm suddenly woozy—that's why I'm suddenly exhausted! The adrenaline setting in is already ebbing away, leaving a weight in my limbs. "No," I manage, tears forming in my eyes. "No— no,  _don't_ —" 

I reach for the needle in my arm, trying to yank it out, but he stops me, catching my hand in his. I hiss—it hurts to move my fingers. I don't want to do this, but I  _need_  to stop the flow of drugs—I try to bend my left arm, try to break the catheter. He quickly realizes what I'm trying to do, and he stops me, pushing my upper arm into the cot so I can't move it. 

"It's too late; you already feel it setting in, don't you?"He takes a seat on the edge of the cot. "Don't worry," he says, still smiling. "You won't fall asleep." 

I shake my head uselessly at him, feeling myself grow heavier and heavier. My movements are slowing rapidly. I try to fight it, but I can't! Even if I could expel the drug from my system, I'm still stuck to the cot. I'm a sitting duck. "No—  _stop_!  _Help_!" I howl towards the corridor. 

"Shh, now, don't ruin this...." He puts his hand over my mouth until I stop screaming. "I wanted you to be awake for this," he continues, seeming to enjoy watching me panic. Almost to mock me, he smooths my hair away from my face, tucking strands behind my ear. "This is what happens to bad children who don't respect their elders."

"Please," I beg helplessly, voice already fading. "Please, I'll be good— _please_ —"

"You had your chance, Isabella." He grabs my ankles and stretches me out flat on the bed, ignoring my feeble kicks and quiet pleading. "But you don't go by that, do you? What is it that Mr. Davies calls you? Issa?"

I whimper as I feel his hand on my thigh. His touch is soft, slowly moving inwards. He moves closer to me, perched just right so he can see my terrified expression, and he smirks, his fingers lazily exploring, moving up my stomach. I can't move. I can't scream. I can barely breathe. The only thing I can do is cry weakly, feeling the tears drip down my face. 

He continues stroking my hair. "Come on, now, stop that; you're much prettier when you're not crying...." He crawls on the bed with me, almost lying completely on top of me. His weight crushes me, making it harder to breathe. I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping to shut down, to fall out of consciousness. "I don't usually like children; but for you... for  _you_ , I'll make an exception...." 

I feel his breath on my face. "Open your eyes, Issa," he orders in a low voice. He caresses my cheek, running his thumb gently over my scar. "You need to learn your lesson." When I keep my lids clenched shut, he chuckles. "Have it your way, then." I feel him close the already-small distance between my lips and his.

Is that his  _tongue_? Gathering all my strength, I bite down as hard as I can. I'm not that strong right now, but the mouth is a sensitive area, so he recoils, sitting back up. "As feisty as ever," he notes, breathing heavily. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a switchblade, flicking it open. "I should give you another scar.... Right  _here_... a matching set...." Gently, he trails the blade along my right cheek, not hard enough to draw blood. 

"No." He pulls it away slightly. "No visible damage," he reminds himself. "Still.... I think... maybe just a little cut... just to remind you who's in charge...." The knife skims from my cheek to my mouth. He presses down and pulls it back, making a nick on my bottom lip. My breath catches as I feel the sting. 

My eyes are still clenched shut, but I can hear him chuckle. A metallic taste registers through the panic and fatigue. He leans forward again, and I feel him  _lick_  me— he's licking the blood off my lip. His mouth is still pressed against mine, so I feel it when he smirks slightly, and he goes right back to making out with me against my will. I'm all too aware of the knife in his hand, the flat of the blade resting against my ear as he runs his thumb over my stitches. His other hand floats down, hesitating slightly on my collarbone before continuing its trek south. 

For a long time, he sucks on my lips. His tongue lingers inside my mouth, licking my teeth. It's slimy and disgusting, but whatever he drugged me with paralyzes me. I can do nothing to stop his filthy hands from fondling my breasts. I am completely subjected to his will, and he's not going to show mercy. 

Then he undresses me completely. I try  _so damn hard_  to do  _something_ ,  _anything_  that will make him stop, but I can't.

"If you open your eyes, I'll be gentle," he offers in a husky whisper. I don't; I  _can't._ "Fine, then."  

Then he rapes me. And I can't do anything to stop him. He doesn't use protection or lubricant, so it hurts infinitely more than what I'm told it should. I don't know how long it lasts; it could have been anywhere from fifteen minutes to an eternity. 

He withdraws without warning, and something wet and sticky smears on my thigh, and he lets out another moan, panting. He slowly pushes into me a few more times, much gentler now. Then, he moves my knees off of his shoulders, making me straddle his hips. My foot dangles off the side of the bed, but he leaves it. I feel his fingers between my legs again.

"Your first time?" he huffs breathlessly, gently feeling me. "Oh, yes... here's a little bit of blood.... Well, that can be expected when you're not prepared...."

He's  _disgusting_. I  _hate_ him. I wish I could scream; I wish I could move. I wish I could wrap my fingers around his neck and not let go until he stops breathing. Then, I wish I could shoot myself in the head and sleep forever.

Since I can't talk, he continues, one hand massaging me while the other wipes tears away from my face. He gets on top of me again, pressing his nose against mine almost tenderly. "Come on, stop crying. That wasn't  _that_  bad." I feel him grin against my lips, and he kisses me again. "You had fun. Admit it." 

Had I not been trying so hard to ignore the man lying on top of me while kissing me and feeling me, I would have missed the soft click of the door opening, the tap of shoes approaching, and the quiet rustling of someone peeking past the curtain.

Hughes has been so focused on taunting me and drawing out this torture that he didn't notice the stranger until he drops something that shatters: a glass vase of little yellow and pink flowers. 

Prussia had decided to visit.

My assaulter springs away from me as if my skin burns him, but that doesn't erase what Prussia saw. My white-haired savior shouts in German, and Hughes replies hastily, stuttering, fumbling with his pants. Their conversation doesn't last long: Prussia strides around the cot to him, pulls his fist back, and lets it collide with Hughes's jaw, and he crumples. 

Gasping, I manage to turn my head to the side, feebly trying to spit out the content of my mouth, letting both of our saliva drool onto the pillow. He cut my lip, and it  _stings_. But it's  _nothing_ compared to the soreness between my legs.

Prussia turns to me, a look of concern replacing his expression of rage. His gaze travels over my exposed form, and he slaps a hand over his eyes. Turning away and letting his hand drop, he yanks a blanket off of a different bed, and he spreads it over my naked body.  I want to jump up and cling to him, thank him profusely for coming to my rescue, but I'm paralyzed. The most I can do to show my gratitude is weakly tug up the corners of my mouth, tears of relief replacing the ones of terror.

He looks at the IV needle in my arm, and he goes around the bed again to swiftly remove it. With the source of the drug no longer flowing into my bloodstream, I already feel a little better. Far from getting up or talking, but better. He even takes a set of keys from his pocket and unlocks my cuffs. Taking my previously restrained hand, he meets my gaze, and he asks me if I'm okay. All I can do is breathe, crying inconsolably. As thankful as I am for helping me, he came far too late. The deed is done. He  _raped_  me.

My eyes flick over to the corner when I hear Hughes groan, starting to get up. Prussia's eyes harden, and, releasing me, he marches back to the man and grabs the collar of his shirt, throwing him against the wall, and he starts yelling. I guess Hughes tries to defend himself, but Prussia isn't hearing any of it. Still standing between me and him, Prussia whips out a cell phone, dialing a number and holding it to his ear.

Hughes goes pale, and he tries to run. But Prussia is quicker— he sticks out his leg before he passes him, and he trips. He goes over to him, holding the phone between his ear and his shoulder, and he binds Hughes's hands behind his back with the same cuffs he used to restrain me. Sweet irony.

Whoever Prussia called answers. He starts yelling into the receiver, foot lodged on Hughes's back so he can't escape. The call is short; the other person hangs up first.

I feel something against my fingertips, and I strain to grab it. It's Hughes's knife. Struggling immensely, I pull it out from under the blanket, and I try to throw it at him. My aim is way off, and I have almost no throwing power, so the blade clatters harmlessly to the floor. 

Only a few minutes pass before I hear the door slam open, and someone rips the curtains back. It's Germany. He views the scene, from my bare shoulders peeking out from under the blanket, to Prussia hovering by my side, to Hughes hogtied on the ground, and then he  _explodes_. Normally his anger is directed  _at_  me instead of at  _for_  me. I had wondered whether he had  _ordered_  this assault to try to scare me into submission, but it doesn't look like it; Hughes took it upon himself to try to control me.

A few soldiers had entered the room after Germany, and he points at Hughes and growls and order, and they lift him up and haul him away. 

Then, something odd happens. Germany and I lock gazes, and, for a second, he looks genuinely sorry for me. He looks away first.

Japan and Italy enter the room, surprised. Ludwig and Prussia fill them in on what happened to me, and the same pang of pity and regret flash in their eyes, too. Italy sits on the edge of my bed, taking my uninjured hand, crooning sorrowfully at me. I still don't like him; I think it's because he was there when I was taken, and Prussia wasn't, and that's why I like Prussia more than I like Italy. Taking a deep breath, I manage to turn my head away, leaning on my right cheek, away from my three original attackers. I should've kept the knife. I don't want Italy to touch me, and I bet he'd learn his lesson if I sunk a blade in his hand.

My fear is slowly draining, my usual mix of anger and sadness taking its place. This never would have  _happened_ if they hadn't kidnapped me in the  _first place_! My fingers respond to my emotions, flexing into fists and digging into both Italy's hand and the Ace bandage around my palm. Italy whines and squirms out of my grasp. Prussia has been watching my minute expressions rather than listening to the others' conversation, and he seems almost sad about my furious stare.

He gently touches my clenched fist, and my eyes dart up to meet his. I could be imagining it, but his unhappy look seems to morph into a determined nod.

After a few more minutes, someone touches my left shoulder. I'm barely able to lift my head to turn it. It's a woman, auburn hair tied into a high bun. "Hello, Miss Pryce," she says, her words tinted with a German accent. "My name is Gisela Reinhold, and I am to act as your new translator. Victor Hughes has been removed from his position of General, effective immediately. He is no longer welcome at this facility."

She continues. "The attack on you was not planned. Mr. Beilschmidt, Mr. Honda, and Mr. Vargas are all very sorry, and they assure you that this will not happen again." I look away from her, exhaling in a quiet huff. In a roundabout way, this is their fault, and I'm not about to forgive them

"We're going to need to examine you to determine the extent of your injuries," she tells me. I shake my head a little bit, eyes widening in alarm.  _Please_ , everyone just  _stop touching me!_  "I know you're scared, sweetheart, but this will be over quickly," she reassures me kindly. I clench my eyes shut again, still trying to shake my head, but they just won't  _listen_ to me.

Another woman walks in; I think she's the gynecologist from yesterday. She draws the curtains around my bed again, shooing away all the men in the room. Prussia squeezes my hand and starts to let go, but I manage to whimper loud enough to grab his attention. 

"You want him to stay?" the gynecologist asks. I manage a nod, and she translates for him. He tightens his grip around my fingers and nods solemnly, sitting on a chair, facing my head and not my legs. I appreciate his discretion.

The woman, wearing rubber gloves now, pulls the blanket up to my stomach. She wipes away the semen on my leg and hands the napkin to Reinhold, who puts it in a Ziploc evidence bag. I scrunch my eyes closed, trying to block all of my senses from the waist-down, but it doesn't work, just as it didn't work when Hughes was torturing me. I think they take his knife from the floor, too. 

I'm really glad Prussia's here. He keeps the pressure on my hand, gently tracing circles on my palm. Every time I flinch or gasp, I hear him murmur to me that everything's okay.

She's finally done prodding at me. Taking off her gloves, she scribbles notes on a clipboard, explaining my condition to Prussia. "There won't be any permanent damage; you'll just need a lot of rest," Reinhold tells me. 

"Here's a mild sedative," the gynecologist says, sticking me with the needle before I can accept or reject. "We're going to take you back to your room now, okay?" She looks at Prussia, who nods. Gently, he cocoons me in the cot's sheets, making sure I'm covered, and he picks me up like I'm nothing, looping my limp arms around his neck, leaning my uninjured cheek on his shoulder. I'm slowly regaining my strength; even if I could move, I wouldn't. I'm glad Prussia doesn't seem to mind my crying onto his shirt. 

Germany is in the hallway, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed. Again— we make eye contact. I see genuine regret flash in his expression. He looks away first.

We reach my room, and Reinhold unlocks the door, and Prussia carries me in. Jia Li seems like a stress-cleaner; the room is in nearly the exact state as when I first arrived, before I decided to tear apart the place. She's sitting on the couch, and she gasps when she sees me, standing and watching Prussia carry me; she must be afraid of him. Understandable.

Prussia sets me down on the bed I was in when he first came to see me. He smooths my hair back, giving me a small smile, and he says something. "Rest well," Reinhold translates.

"We will give you twenty-four hours of recovery before your testing resumes," she informs me. I blink in response, face expressionless.

And then they're gone.

Jia Li rushes to me, sitting on the side of my bed. She talks to herself—or to me, I guess, but I can't understand. She winces sympathetically at my stitches, and she lifts my right hand, seeming to question the bandage. I wiggle my fingers, showing her my hand's not broken, and I think she understands that.

Gathering all my strength, I struggle to lift myself to a sitting position, grimacing as the blood rushes to my head. One hand moves by itself, making sure the blanket doesn't slip. I let myself get used to that before I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. I grab at the bedpost, using it to push myself up. I don't make it very far before my legs give up. Jia Li catches me before I fall, guiding me back to bed. But, still fighting the drug, I refuse to lay down. I point at the bathroom door, trying to get up again.

Jia Li understands, and she helps me stand and walk over to it. She hovers nervously in the door frame as I wobble in. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror; I look terrible. Matches my mood, I guess. The skin around my cut has started bruising, creating a blue and purple mask around my left eye. The cut itself has started the process of healing, but it still looks raw and bloody. The bruises on my neck are still as dark as ever. And I don't realize this until I catch sight of my reflection: I'm still crying.

I wasn't sure why I wanted in the bathroom, but I know now. My hands grasp the edge of the tub, fumbling with the tap. I manage to turn the water on and drop myself in the bath. I'm still swaddled in the blankets, and in my slowness, I can't figure out how to change the setting from shower to bath or from cold to hot, so the freezing water comes at me from above. Water droplets stain my lenses, and I can't see. My bandage absorbs water like a sponge. I manage to plug the drain, though, so the water pools around my legs.

I can't think. All I know is that I have to get clean. I can feel phantom hands touching my body, lazily exploring my body. I fumble for the bar of soap. Plunging my fingernails into it so it won't slip away from me, I attack the imprints, furiously scrubbing wherever they go: my thighs, my stomach, my shoulders, my chest, my neck, my face.... I stop just short of shoving the bar into my mouth, and that's mostly because my face hurts so much.

The phantom hands move back between my legs, and I'm  _very_  aware of the pain. I feel stretched; used;  _ripped apart_. I feel  _dirty_.

I can't breathe—I'm having a panic attack. But in my hysteria, I can't remember how to calm myself down. It doesn't help that with each shuddering pant I inhale a few more drops of water. All I can do is claw at the ghost, hoping that if I get them off I'll be okay. But I can't grab the hands, and my own nails dig into my skin. My fingernails are sharp where I bit at them, and I can feel them tearing into my flesh. 

The water suddenly stops falling, drawing out a gasp as the cold air sticks to my wet skin. I recoil when a blurry form touches me, but Jia Li's voice soothes me. She puts her hand over my own, still speaking to me. I shake my head, breaths coming in hysterical sobs, nails scraping at my legs. I'm still bleeding a little bit; the water around me is tinted pink. She squeezes my hand, and she gently tugs my glasses from my face. I think she's made a guess as to what I've just been through.

I'm shivering and soaked through, but she hugs me anyway. She just holds me as I sob, silently stroking my wet hair. Eventually, I calm down enough to remember how to think, which helps me remember my breathing exercises: breath in for seven counts...hold for four counts...breath out for eight counts....

While I work on trying to stop crying, Jia Li withdraws. I can't see where she goes, but I'm too preoccupied to care. She wraps a towel around my shoulders, transferring some of the water from my soaking clothes to the cloth.

She leaves again, this time coming back with a change of clothes: a clean bra and underwear, one of the white shirts, and a pair of black sweatpants.She has also found my gray zip-up hoodie. I'm still very weak, so she helps me dress. I'm too exhausted to feel self-conscious anymore. 

When I'm done, she helps me walk back to my bed, and she pulls back the covers so I can crawl underneath. Tears still leak from my eyes, but they're coming down a lot lighter than they were. Jia Li lies down next to me, letting me cling to her. I need to sleep; I can't handle being awake anymore. The darkness swallows me quicker than I expect.   
  
  
  


I dream of a bird. A little one. A sparrow. It flies along in the bright blue sky, wings fluttering joyously, reveling in its freedom. It's a youngling, just barely realizing its potential. It must have just left the nest in which it hatched. The sparrow never seemed to realize the wonders of the world in which it lives.

Out of nowhere, a bigger bird, a hawk, swoops in, talons poised for attack. The sparrow squawks and diverts its course, but it's nowhere near as fast as the bird of prey. The little sparrow dives, heading for the tree line; I think it hopes to escape the hawk's grasp by darting into a patch of thickets, using its tiny stature to its advantage.

But the hawk suddenly transforms mid-flight into a man, but its new form still has wings on its back and talons for fingernails. It gains a burst of speed, closing in on the sparrow, and it snatches it right out of the sky. The little bird cries out in pain, its wings broken. The more it struggles, the tighter the man-hawk's grip becomes, until, finally, the beast wrings the sparrow's neck, killing it instantly.


	5. Guilty

"I can't help unless you let me, Miss Pryce." The new translator leans forward and folds her hands on the table separating us. It's about 12 hours into my "recovery," and they sent in Reinhold to make me talk through my experience. Therapy. It makes me angry that they're trying to rehabilitate me. They did this to me. I don't want to talk to them.

So I remain silent. I haven't spoken anything since the incident yesterday, and I'm not going to. They can't make me.

"Okay," Reinhold says. She nudges the plate she brought with her when she came in about ten minutes ago. "If you're not going to talk, you should at least eat. It's been about five days since you were brought here." The smell is tempting, and my stomach groans in anticipation, but I'm too angry. When I don't move, she sighs. "Isabella, we don't want to force sustenance on you, especially not now. It will be easier for you if you just eat."

I sigh quietly, glancing at the plate. To appease her, I grab the piece of bread on the side, take a single bite, and drop it.

"Good," she praises. "It's a start."

Oh, good. A  _start._ How long is she going to bother me?

She waits for a few more moments before telling me, "If you're not going to eat any more, it's time to talk."

The memories from yesterday flood into my mind, and I feel myself tear up. No—no, I'm not going to think about it. Blinking rapidly to try to stop the tears, I fiddle with the bandage wrapped around my palm, tugging on it. The pain in my hand distracts me a little bit.

"Stop that," she scolds me, reaching over the table to stop me from messing with the cast. I flinch away from her touch. I'm already sitting sideways in the chair, but I try to turn around more, folding my arms across the backrest. Jia is sleeping on the bed closest to me, undisturbed by the woman's presence.

"Tell me what happened, Isabella," she says, her voice gentler. "Start from when you were admitted into the infirmary." I don't acknowledge her. "According to the infirmary's records, you were asleep for around six hours before you were given fluids from an IV drip. Yes? Then you stayed awake for about three more hours until General Hughes brought Joshua to see you?" She waits in vain for me to confirm or deny. "How long was it until General Hughes entered again?"

Reinhold sighs again after a good five minutes of silence. "Okay, Isabella. I understand. You view me as an enemy, and for good reason. But you have to understand—I'm only trying to help you. I know you don't want to talk about it, but I still need to take an official statement from you." She gets up and walks around the table to try to make eye contact, but I pivot away. I can't help but allow a wince to flicker through my expression.

She's quiet for a while. Then, she walks away, and she leaves. I watch her retreating back, confused. It baffles me even more when she leaves the door slightly ajar.

I'm curious. Shakily, I heave myself up, taking small, painful steps towards the unblocked exit. What is she doing?

I peek into the hallway. Reinhold is talking quietly to someone, but I can't see who. "...and she hasn't said anything since. I was hoping she would talk to you. Try to get her to eat, if you can, as well."

"...Okay," Josh nods, and he pushes the door open. It startles him to find me so close to the exit, but he gets over it quickly and envelops me in a hug. I wasn't expecting it, so I flinch. But I melt into his embrace, and it doesn't take long for me to start crying into his shoulder. "Shh, it's okay, Issa—it's okay—it's over—you're okay...." He pulls me over to the couch, helping me walk after he realizes it's hard for me, and he keeps his arms around me.

I let myself sob into his jumpsuit for about a minute before sitting up and wiping my face. "I can't even imagine what you're going through...," he whispers, gently taking my uninjured hand. I squeeze his fingers, but I don't meet his gaze. "She told me to get you to talk about it, but I understand completely if you don't.

I nod, silently thanking him, and I lean against his chest. He's showered—he smells like plain soap. I probably do, too. Except for my jacket—that still smells like home. There's blood all around the collar and sleeves, but I won't let them wash it. I won't let them take this last piece of home away from me.

We don't say anything for a long time. Maybe ten minutes pass before Josh says, "She's right, you know. You should eat." I sigh in displeasure. "I've eaten. They didn't drug the food, if that's what you're worried about."

Reluctantly, I nod. He gets the plate for me, and I take small bites. I'm only able to eat half of it before I'm full. "Proud of you," Josh encourages when I hand him the plate again. He puts it back on the table. Reinhold nods at him, indicating that it's okay that I didn't eat it all.

He puts his arm around me. "Are you ready to talk about it?" I shake my head. "Okay. Will you talk about anything else?" I shake my head again, and he nods again. "That's okay."

Josh holds my hand. I study his fingernails. He doesn't bite them, but I guess there are clippers in his room because they're pretty short. I don't think there are any in mine; I could probably use them to hurt myself.

He has a scar between his thumb and index finger, a small one. I run my finger over it. "Oh, that. You remember how I said my brothers and I are always fighting? There was one time, when I was around eight or nine— I forget— but I was trying to impress them. Johnny dared me to juggle steak knives." I give a snort of laughter. "Yeah, it's funny  _now_ ," he grins, squeezing my hand. "My mum just about had a conniption when she saw. She was  _so_  angry at them."

Reinhold clears her throat and pulls a chair to sit in front of us. "You should be ready to talk by now," she says.

"No, I'm not," I say, surprising myself. "...I didn't mean—.... I didn't mean to say anything," I whisper.

"I'm very sorry to use this against you," she says, and it seems like she means it. She pulls a small bottle of clear liquid out of her pocket. "You were just given a small dose of Amobarbital. It's an anti-anxiety medicine; you're feeling looser, and thus more willing to talk."

It's true—I'm dizzy. "How could you do that?!" Josh asks angrily. "Now she's never going to accept any food from you again!"

"I hate you people," I manage, crying, unable to stop myself from letting the truth come out. "I hate you so much, and I want to kill everyone and then myself."

"I'm sorry," she says again. "I was under orders."

"That shouldn't mean anything. You should be able to break orders if you find them unethical," Josh says, holding me close to him. I can't stop babbling about how badly I want to kill myself. "Listen to her— she's so terrified and hurt—how could you  _do_  this?!"

"Calm down, or I'll take you back to your room," she says. Josh bites his tongue.

"I hate you," I sob. "I hate you."

Ignoring me, "Miss Pryce, how long were you in the infirmary after Mr. Davies left until General Hughes came back?"

"A few hours—I wasn't paying attention to time...."

"Did he say anything to you?"

I nod plaintively. "Said he was teachin' me a lesson...." My words are starting to slur. She nods and writes in my folder. "Please, I don't want to talk about it—please don't make me talk about it—please, please...."

"How long did he take advantage of you?"

"I don't know!" I whimper, shaking my head. "I don't know—I was too busy trying to break the par—parla—parsis—I was trying to move; I wanted to kill him—I still do." I can't say big words like paralysis anymore. "Could'a been fifteen minutes—could'a been fifteen  _years_!"

She asks more questions, and I literally can't stop myself from answering. I give her what she wants, though—every single X-rated detail of what happened to me. I'm glad I can't see Josh's face. After a while, it gets harder for me to lift my arms. "I can't move—I can't move!" I cry, panic setting in. This feels an awful lot like the drug Hughes used on me yesterday, and I'm having flashbacks. I'm crying hysterically. It's definitely not the "I'm trying my hardest to keep it together" kind of weeping; this is full-on hyperventilating, snot-dripping-down-my-face, ugly sobbing, and I can't stop.

"It's okay—shh, shh, it's okay—I'm here—I won't let them hurt you," Josh murmurs, hugging me tighter.

"You can still move," Reinhold says. "The drug is a sedative. You're getting tired, so it's getting harder for you to move, but you still can."

"Please kill me," I beg, weakly opening and closing my fist around a handful of Josh's shirt, just to make sure that I can.

"I'm sorry, Miss Pryce," she says, and it looks like she means it, "but no. In a few minutes, you're going to fall asleep. Mr. Davies, you can stay until then. I'll give you two some space in the meantime."

"I want to die," I sob, unable to keep my thoughts to myself.

"I know," he whispers, and I think he's crying, too.

 

 

That's the last thing I remember until my 24 hours of recovery are up. "Miss Pryce, it's time to get up. You need to get dressed," Reinhold says the next day, resting her hand on my shoulder. I flinch up and away from her, and I wince—in addition to my soreness, I have a massive headache. Reinhold is already there with two acetaminophen and a glass of water. "Some pain is normal," she assures me, offering the medicine.

I almost laugh. She genuinely expects me to accept anything she tries to give me? No. Absolutely not. I resume my silent treatment, flipping her the bird as I stand and limp over to the dresser to get my uniform. They didn't move me from the couch last night.

Jia and her translator have already left, so Reinhold doesn't rush me. I take my sweet time until she insists that it's time to go. I didn't brush my hair, so it sticks up like a cockatoo, but I literally could not care less right now.

"We were going to do allergy tests today," Reinhold tells me as she fastens the handcuffs around my wrists, "but considering what happened, we're switching to a less physical test. It's just like a school test."

I nod listlessly. She leads me out, keeping one hand loosely on my elbow, but I know better than to resist.

I'm in a small room by myself this time. I'm allowed to have one hand unrestrained; the other is chained to the table. There's already a booklet and a number 2 pencil waiting for me. "You have two hours to finish as much as you can. Nobody expects you to complete it," she tells me as she leaves.

I sigh and pick up the pencil. It looks like a standardized test—it even has the instruction to fill in the bubbles completely. I don't feel like thinking, especially not with my headache, so I choose A for every answer. My hand hurts a lot, so I have to concentrate on using my nondominant hand. When I'm done, I push everything to the side and rest my head on the table, pulling my glasses off to make it more comfortable, and I doze off.

The door opens after a long time. "Are you done?" I nod without sitting up. "...You didn't take this seriously," she notices. I nod again, and she sighs. "You know you're going to have to do this over, right?" I turn my head away from her, being careful not to press my cut against the table. "Later," she promises, and she puts my handcuffs back on and leads me away.

She brings me to the cafeteria. They've taken me here three times every day, except for the first day and yesterday, where I barely got out of bed. The five of us get a table, and our meals are already set out for us. When Reinhold unlocks me, I do as I normally do when I sit—I push my tray away from me.

Dimah and Harvey haven't seen my new cut yet, so they're concerned. Luckily, neither of them can really ask because of the language barrier. They do seem to notice that I'm more subdued than normal, though, but they can't ask about that either. Josh knows because he was told, and I think Jia guessed correctly. And I'm sure that anyone with a high enough clearance can read my file and know.

"...I know you don't want to, and you have a good reason not to, but I think you'd feel better if you ate something...," Josh tells me, nudging my tray back to me. I shake my head and push it away again, so he offers his. "I feel fine," he explains. "I don't think they did anything to it."

I shake my head again. "Come on," he tries. "You need to get back your strength."

I sit there for a few more minutes. My temptation for food isn't nearly as bad as it was yesterday, but it's there. Still. They drugged me. If they're going to incapacitate me like that again, they're going to have to use the direct approach.

After a while, I think I made the right choice in not eating. Everyone else is sluggish. I grab Josh's arm and shake him. His head lolls back and forth and he says, "Hm? Nnn." Jia has about the same response. Dimah looks panicked, though. I'm pretty sure he just made the same hunger strike that I've made.

I whirl around when the door opens. There's a guy I don't recognize, and it looks like he's wearing protective gear.

The direct approach, indeed. I back into a corner, and he traps me there. I can't hurt him—his uniform is padded, and he's wearing thick gloves and a mask with bars like a baseball umpire's. He wrestles me to the ground, and I scream, but he lets me.

Panic courses through me. Hughes has spread the word; I must be fun to rape.

"Relax, Miss Pryce," someone else says. Through my panic, I see that it's Reinhold. "I'm very sorry. Just relax. No one's going to hurt you." She sticks me with the needle, and I scream again, howling my pain and terror.

The man keeps me pinned to the floor until I quit thrashing. "See? That wasn't so bad," Reinhold says, helping the man lift me to my feet. Hughes said something like that when he was done with me. I go limp, letting myself hang from their grasp.

"Get up," she says, shaking my arm. I don't. She sighs and says something in German to the man. He nods and drags me to the door. I see that they brought a few wheelchairs. They're doing a test, and they don't expect us to cooperate. I wiggle feebly in the man's arms. When he makes me sit, I try to throw myself out of it. He keeps his hand on my shoulder.

I cry. I can't do anything else.

They bring me to the testing room. "We're going to do an allergy test. It's called a scratch test, and we need to do it on your back. That means we have to take your shirt off." I shake my head as hard as I can, letting out a desperate whine. "You're never going to be alone with one person," she assures me. "We're going behind a curtain. I'll stay with you the whole time."

Is that supposed to reassure me?! I hate her as much as I hate everyone else!

They do as she says—take my behind a curtain, unbutton my jumpsuit top, and lay me down face-first on a table. From there, they put blankets around my sides and unbuckle my bra so they can get at my bare back. Reinhold bends to look at me on my level. "I understand that this brings back very bad memories, so I won't have them tie you down. Please don't make me regret that decision."

It's not like I could even if I wanted to.

They draw on my back with marker and strategically make tiny pokes all over me. They rub about forty different allergens into each nick. Lots of grasses, trees, pollen, molds, foods, insect venoms, and medicines. I'm allergic to only penicillin and its relatives, cat dander, and formaldehyde. Seems like a lot of work to learn that little.

They leave me alone for a good half-hour. Dimah made a big commotion, even though he's as drugged as the others. They had to call over another doctor for him. I wonder if he has more cuts than just on his arm. They had to get another doctor for Harvey, too—he must've had a pretty bad reaction to something.

 

 

I flinch and shudder when someone cleans my back. They put bandages over the irritated marks and then clip my bra together again. My movements are slow, but I raise my head and look around for my shirt. The doctor gives it to me and walks away, closing the curtain behind her. I knock lightly on my table to let her know I'm done.

"We'll do one more test today," Reinhold tells me. When I glance up at her, she clarifies, "Just be creative."

I guess I can do that.

We go to a room that's full of art supplies. She uncuffs me and leaves. The others are in here, too, except Harvey. I guess his reaction to the allergen was more severe than the rest of us.

"Artsy stuff," Josh notices. "Are you going to do anything?" He's trembling, shaken from earlier events, but he's doing a good job of keeping it together.

I wander to the paints, picking up a tube. The label reads nontoxic. Damn. Sighing, I give a shrug. I like art, and I'm bored as hell.

Still. My art is very personal to me, and I don't want these guys to see it. Maybe I'll paint something, and then I'll destroy it. Poetic justice.

So I sit at an easel and gather a bunch of acrylics and brushes. I decide to use as much of the paint as possible, so I use thick strokes. Oil paint works better with this technique, but that's toxic, and they're probably right in thinking that I'll try to poison myself with it.

My painting is of a bird in a cage. The bird, small and yellow, like Gilbert's bird, is dead on the floor. Josh sits next to me and says nothing.

About halfway through, the door opens. It's Harvey and his translator. His face is swollen, and it looks like he's been crying. "Are you okay?" Josh asks.

Harvey shakes his head. "I am... a—aler—allergic? To bees. Very bad."

"And they still made you come here? That's awful. I'm sorry, man."

"It is... it  _will be_... okay, maybe." He sits at a table and picks up some charcoal, twirling it slightly in his fingers. "...I want to go home...."

"Me too," Josh says sadly, and he pats Harvey comfortingly on the shoulder.

A few minutes later, they have to come in and stop Dimah from breaking the canvas frames and trying to sharpen the remains like spears.

I finish painting. Then, I walk over to the sink and put the whole canvas under the faucet and turn on the tap, letting the water dilute the paint and wash away. "Aw, what are you doing?" Josh protests. "That was good!"

I shrug. I still don't feel like talking, so I can't explain my thought process—I don't want them looking at my art. They don't deserve it.

I take the wet canvas back to my spot and break the frame. I'm not trying to make spears out of the wood, so I discard them. Then, I take the loose canvas and tear it into strips, unraveling it, and I throw the pieces on the floor.

"Deconstruction," Josh notices. I nod.

I tap his hand, a silent question. Are you going to do anything?

He understands. "I'm not good at art."

I shrug. Everyone can be good at art with enough practice.

The door opens again. It's Reinhold. "You're not in trouble," she clarifies when she sees my expression. "I just wanted to know your thought process. Why did you destroy what you painted?"

Because it's mine, and I don't want any of you to look at it, I answer in my mind.

She sighs. "Very well, then. Testing is over for today. If you want, you can take some of these supplies back to your room for entertainment." I take her up on that offer, grabbing a few sheets of paper and some pencils. I hug Josh goodbye, let myself be restrained, and follow Reinhold back to my room.

 

 

The next day is similar, but with less drugging. They make me do the standardized test again. I choose B for every answer this time.

 

 

The day after that, they come to me while we're all in the cafeteria. I, like normal, haven't touched my food. Neither has Dimah; he hasn't since the day they were all drugged. Reinhold and Dimah's translator make us sit at a different table. I think they give us the same spiel: "Listen, Isabella. You  _need_  to eat. We  _really_  don't want to force-feed you, especially not after everything you've already been through. We're sorry we drugged the food, and it won't happen again. This is your last warning."

I find myself trembling. I don't know what's worse—giving in and eating what they give me or being drugged again and having a feeding tube shoved down my throat.

Just eating seems like the easier way to do this, so I pick around my food, eating less than half, but that seems to satisfy them.

 

 

Throughout the next week, they keep trying to get me to talk, but I won't, and there's nothing they can do to me except drugging that can make me.

They have a secret weapon, though.

The week after my rape, they take me to a small room. The countries are there, except for Prussia. I haven't seen them since last week. "Why won't you speak?" Japan asks.

I, of course, remain silent.

There's a phone in the middle of the table. Japan nods at Reinhold, and she dials a number and puts the phone on speaker. After quite a few rings, someone answers, and I feel my stomach drop. "H—hello?" Mom asks.

"Hello, Mrs. Pryce," Reinhold says into a strange microphone that distorts her voice, making it sound a lot deeper. "We would like your help."

"Who is this?" Her voice is shaking. "Why is your number blocked?"

"It doesn't matter who we are."

Mom sounds like she's crying. "I—is—... is Issa there?"

Reinhold looks at me encouragingly. When I can only sit there, tears streaming down my face, she answers, "Yes."

Mom sobs. "Please,  _please_ , bring her back to me! What do you want?!"

"We're conducting a test. The problem is that Isabella won't work with us. The more she cooperates, the faster it goes, and the sooner we can release her."

"What test?!"

"That's classified. Isabella was attacked a week ago. She's okay, but she won't speak, and she hardly eats. We want you to convince her to cooperate with us. She can hear you now."

"Issa—please, baby, can you hear me? Please, please, say something!"

I bury my face in my hand, my breathing catching. I want to talk to her so badly, but at this point, I don't think I could talk if I wanted to. I've tried, but my throat hurts, and no amount of water will ease the pain.

"I can hear you, sweetheart," Mom cries. "I'm here—Please say something. Let me know you're okay...."

Slowly, I reach out a trembling hand, and I hang up.

That surprises my captors so much that they don't stop me. "...Why did you do that?" Germany asks with Reinhold's voice.

I shake my head. I don't know. I can't explain. I guess... I just don't want Mom to see—hear—me in my current state. I'm embarrassed, I think. I'm unclean now. I don't deserve even a mother's love.

 

 

Another week passes.

 

 

Then another.

 

 

February melts into March, and I'm still here.

 

 

About halfway through the third month of the year, about 30 days since I've spoken a single word, they try something infinitely crueler to try to get me to talk. They bring me to a room, and Hughes is sitting in there.

Reinhold is the only other one in there. There's a one-way mirror in here, and I'm assuming the countries are on the other side, watching me. As soon as I recognize the man, I press myself against the door, fumbling with my restrained hands with the knob, which won't turn.

"He can't hurt you," Reinhold tells me softly. "Say anything you want to him."

Hughes doesn't look like he did a month ago. He's lost a lot of weight, and he doesn't look like he's been sleeping. His teeth are yellowed; smoking, maybe. I can smell the tobacco off of him from here.

After a few minutes of silence, in which he glares at me and I can only stare like a deer caught in headlights, he asks, "Well? You used to have no problem cursing at me."

I shake my head, terrified.

"My, my. Afraid of little old me, are you, Issa?" He gets up, but he's handcuffed to the table. I actually flinch towards Reinhold, hating her a lot less than I hate him. He knows how much it bothers me that he uses my nickname.

"Sit down," Reinhold commands him, and she pats my arm reassuringly.

He does. "Definitely not as brave as you were. And to think, it took only one session of play to scare you into submission. A pity; I was counting on you to keep up your nonsense."

I'm crying. Looking pleadingly at Reinhold, I shake the door handle again.

"If you want to leave, ask," she says.

My voice doesn't work, but I mouth the words. I cough and try again. This time, sound comes out, embarrassingly quiet. "P—please," is all I can manage. My throat hurts too much for me to say anything else.

She decides that's good enough. "I'm sure we'll meet again, Issa," Hughes calls jauntily as I bolt from the room.

 

 

I'll never find this out, but about an hour after that last attempt to get me to speak, Germany is still ruminating over the interaction. "She spoke," he tells Japan again.

"One word," he reminds him.

"Still. Fear made her shut up, and fear makes her talk. She wouldn't even talk to her own mother." He steeples his fingers, thinking. "There's only one person she'll obey."

The door opens. It's Prussia. "Did you seriously do what I think you did?" he asks angrily.

"That depends on what you think I did."

"You made the girl face the guy that  _raped_  her."

"She won't speak. How else—?"

Prussia interrupts. "Yeah, she's so  _traumatized_  that she's gone nonverbal—that's not that much of a surprise!"

"She's throwing a wrench into her testing."

"This whole test thing you're doing is really, really  _heinous_ , West.  _Especially_  with Isabella." He crosses his arms and looks slightly away. "Are you even sure she's the right kid?"

"She wouldn't get hurt if she just cooperated, and, yes, I'm sure. She's definitely a doppelganger."

"I'm not saying she's not a doppelganger."

He narrows his eyes. "What are you saying, then? Do you know something I don't?"

Prussia fidgets. "What if... what if she's not  _America's_  doppelganger?"

 

 

I wake up screaming. In my nightmare, I relived every single detail of both my kidnapping and my rape. Somehow, they happened at the same time. The countries and Hughes looked inhumanly grotesque, with exaggerated features and horribly sharp teeth.

I rush to the bathroom and throw up what little I ate last night. Then, I clamber into the tub without bothering to take off my clothes. I plug it and turn on the tap, filling the tub with scalding water. All the while, I'm hyperventilating. Unable to do much else, I bring my head against the wall a few times. Maybe I can knock myself out and drown in the shallow water.

This isn't the first time I've done this, and it probably won't be the last. So Jia knows what to do— she wakes up with a start, follows me, and holds my head to her chest to keep me from hurting myself. I sob into her shirt, letting out all of my frustration and terror and confusion. If I want to remain in the tub and clean myself, she sits with her back to me until I'm done. Then she helps me out, gives me clean clothes, and waits for me to dress myself. When I open the bathroom door, she leads me back to bed, and she hugs me and sings to me in Chinese until I fall asleep again.

"Issa?" Josh asks from the vent. "Are you okay?"

We set up a little system to communicate while I'm in my nonverbal phase. Knocking once for yes and twice for no. I knock twice on the grate.

"Did you have another nightmare?"

Knock.

"Will you tell me about it?"

Knock-knock.

"...Please? I haven't heard your voice in nearly a month. I can't stand only talking to Reinhold."

Knock-knock.

"I'm worried about you, Issa," he says, and I hear the sadness in his voice. He shouldn't be. I'm safe from myself in this place. And since I technically follow orders now, they've stopped hurting me. I still find and exploit loopholes, which they don't like but don't punish me for.

Knock-knock. This time, that's not me. That's from the front door, which swings open.

"Miss Pryce," Reinhold greets. "We've noticed that you've been having difficulty sleeping. We'd like to prescribe you some medicine for that."

I shake my head. I know they're not going to like that, so I hop in bed and pull the blanket over my head, sticking my foot out so their damn cameras can still see me. My sleeping schedule is way off. I go from days where I hardly sleep to days where they literally have to drag me out of bed.

"Come on," she tries. I feel her weight drop onto the bed next to me, and she puts a hand on my back. I flinch away from her touch, rolling over as far as I can away from her without falling off the bed. "Are you going to sleep, or are you hiding?"

Both, I think.

"We both know that you're taking this medicine," she says in a less-gentle tone. "You're making this much harder than it needs to be."

My answer is a single dry sob. I'm  _so tired_. I'm tired of this place, I'm tired of  _her_ , I'm just  _tired_.

"What?" she asks, and I feel her leaning towards me. I flip on my side facing away from her. She sighs. "I can get this in an injection form, if you like that better," she offers, knowing that I don't. I'm covered in needle marks where they keep drugging me.

"Last chance," she warns. I bring my trembling hand out from under the blanket, and she puts two pills in my hand. I push myself into a sitting position. She sees the red marks on my forehead and tuts disapprovingly. "If you don't stop hitting your head against the wall, I'll have to assign someone to watch you at all times."

I take the medicine like a good little hostage. I nearly gag, though. While the capsules are tasteless, the water is salty. Reinhold notices and looks apologetic. "That was a sugar pill. The real sedative is in the water. Rohypnol."

I know the name of that drug, but it takes me a minute to realize why—Rohypnol is a date rape drug.

Seeing the horror on my face, she tries to calm me. "Yes, yes, I know what people use it for, but it's 10 times more potent than valium; it'll put you right to sleep, and you'll be too exhausted to have a nightmare. Relax; no one is going to hurt you."

It doesn't matter what she says. I'm panicking. "The more you struggle, the more uncomfortable you'll feel. Just lay down and go to sleep."

I don't. I let myself flop onto the floor, and I squirm under the bed. "Get back out here, Miss Pryce!" Reinhold says sternly. I kick at her when she grabs my ankle. I don't have much room to maneuver, and I'm feeling a little claustrophobic, but I feel a lot safer under here then up there.

I'm barely hanging on to consciousness when someone stronger grabs my feet and drags me out. I don't have my glasses, and what little I'm able to see is blurrier than normal. All I know is that it's a man, and I hate men, but I can't do anything other than cry weakly. If he wanted to take advantage of me, too, this is the perfect opportunity.

He lays me on the bed. Reinhold, I think, pulls the blanket over me. She smooths my hair away from my face. "I'm sorry," she tells me, and her voice seems to reverberate around my head before becoming distorted.

Then I'm unconscious.

 

 

 

I wake with a short, muffled cry of alarm as someone puts a hand over my mouth. Suddenly terrified and delirious with exhaustion, I grab at the intruder, sinking my nails into their flesh, but they don't release me. After a few seconds of panic and struggling, I recognize Prussia's voice trying to soothe me, but very quietly. I relax slowly, allowing him to keep his hand on my face for a little while longer so he knows I'm not going to scream, and he lets me go.

I slump slightly against the pillows, too tired to be annoyed at my rude awakening. The drugs they used on me haven't seem to have worn off yet, leaving me in a sluggish state. I start nodding off after I realize who he is.

Jia clings to my arm, having been awoken by the struggle, and I hear her voice saying something sharply. I think she asked a question. Prussia, unable to answer, shushes her. I press a heavy-feeling finger to her face, mimicking him. I mean to put my finger on her lips, but I think I accidentally poke her in the eye, and she swats my hand away but heeds me. She seems to trust my judgement, and I'm not concerned about the newcomer.

Not until he starts to shake me slightly, at least. I whine feebly, trying to turn away, but he lifts me in his arms, hoisting me in the air. I'm shocked for a second, but I ultimately decide that I really don't care. He's wearing a heavy coat. The material is sleek against my fingers.

The room is very dim. The only sources of light are the moon shining through the gaps in the curtains and a tiny slit of illumination coming from the slightly open door.

Why didn't he shut the door behind him?

I don't care. I close my eyes.

I think he beckons Jia Li, and I think she follows. It's suddenly too bright, and I give another small groan of displeasure, turning my face towards Prussia's chest to try to block the light. My limbs feel like they're full of lead. My head, though, feels extremely light. This must be the effects of the drugs they gave me. Through the haze of extreme fatigue, I notice that he's moving pretty quickly, and it seems like he's making an effort to quiet his footsteps.

It's not until a sweeping chill rushes over me do I realize what's going on.

His boots crunch on the frozen ground. Tiny snowflakes melt on my face.

We're outside.

My head snaps up, and I'm barely able to open my heavy eyelids. I feel Prussia look down at my sudden movement, and he shushes me again, smiling slightly. A few moments later, he puts me down on a—no, in a car. We're leaving. We're leaving! A suddenly watery laugh escapes me as I feel Prussia click a seat belt around me. Before he can pull away, I manage to trap his head in my arms, half-sobbing into his hair. He pats my arm and extracts himself from my embrace; it's not very hard to push me off, I notice.

I notice Jia Li sitting next to me, looking slightly frightened, but she buckles herself in her seat. Still crying weakly, I let myself crumple towards her, letting one of my arms fall across her lap. She hugs me back, but I'm not sure she understands that my tears are ones of relief.

Prussia starts the vehicle. It moves. I let myself stop crying, too exhausted to continue, and I'm about to fall asleep again when a thought occurs to me. Bolting upright to the other's surprise, I use my voice for the second time in a month. "Josh?"

The driver clears his throat awkwardly. Reaching back without taking his eyes off the road, he pushes my head gently, and I think I catch him saying the word "sleep". I don't, though. How can I sleep now? "Where's Josh?" I repeat, my voice a little bit stronger. Panic fighting the drug, I feel a chill run through me that has nothing to do with the cold outside. "Where's Josh? I don't see him...!"

I'm nowhere near as sharp as I normally am, but there's no mistaking the way Prussia has turned rigid in his seat, sitting stock-still. He's trying to ignore me.

Horror filling me, I barely manage to force the words from my mouth. "Stop the car." He still pretends he can't hear me, and I start to cry again. Josh isn't here; Prussia didn't fetch him and the other two before he whisked us out of our room. "Stop the car! Stop!"

My desperate shout saps the strength from me, and I can't stop myself from slumping back against Jia Li. "Please," I whisper, "we can't leave them...." My vision is still extremely blurry from my lack of my usual eyewear and the way I can't stop my eyelids from drooping. I try to gaze pleadingly into the rear-view mirror anyway, hoping that I'm looking in the right direction and that he's watching.

"Please, Prussia," I whimper, my voice barely registering to my own ears.

He slams on the brakes and jerks around to look at me, seeming panicky. I can't understand what he says next, and I don't really care how he grasps my shoulder and gives me a little shake. I don't care that Jia Li smacks his hands away from me. I don't care that he keeps trying to rouse me. My eyes finally glue themselves shut, and I don't care that I won't know what happens next.

 

 

What happens is that I slowly regain consciousness. There's a salty tinge to the scent of the air, and I'm wrapped in warmth. It's so cozy. I don't ever want to get up.

But a sudden paralyzing knot in my stomach reminds me that I don't know where I am. This isn't the spacious memory foam mattress of the bed in my room in Berlin; my heels dangle off the edge of this mattress that creaks when I shift. Warily, I open my eyes. Dim light streams in from a window to my right. To my left, a bedside table. My glasses lie folded on top of it. Sluggishly, I manage to extract my heavy arm out from under a red and green patchwork quilt to grab them clumsily. I end up touching the lenses and getting my fingerprints on them, which is a pet peeve of mine, but I don't care right now.

A mild sense of fear spreads through me as I wrench my glasses on my face and sit up. My legs are weak, and I stumble slightly as I push myself out of the bed. The springs groan in protest, and I tense, wincing, sure that someone will appear at the sound of my movement. After a few moments of silence, no one comes.

The wallpaper in the room is floral and tacky, decorative plates hanging from pegs on the walls. Dusty books and doilies lay on top of a low dresser, along with a couple of knick-knacks. Tentatively, as if someone might see me, I peer out of the window. I don't see anyone outside, which I take as a good sign. I'm not exactly keen on meeting anyone right now, but I know I need to take in my new surroundings.

The view outside is beautiful. The sun is low in the sky; I don't know where I am, what time it is. Whether it's setting or rising, the way it glitters on the sea in the distance is breathtaking. The grounds, not so much. The house seems to be close to a cliff, and the grass outside is dying and yellowed when visible between patchy piles of snow and mud. The view of the ocean makes up for it, I think.

I whip around as I hear the floor creak somewhere behind me, but I only see a closed door. The person must be just outside. Standing as still as I can, I wait for something to happen. After a moment, I hear a male voice I don't recognize speaking in Japanese quietly, and he seems to walk away.

I already knew that there would be someone here. They wouldn't have left me alone. That was obvious. And I suppose they would have heard me moving, so I guess one of them must have put their ear close to my door to listen to any sounds I might make.

I remember that Prussia took Jia Li and me away. He put us in a car, and I shouted at him.... But... why? ...Oh, that's right.... For some reason, he wouldn't go back and help the boys.... My heart sinks. I can't see any immediate danger, but I still feel apprehensive enough to stay frozen where I am.

But, eventually, I realize I have to move. I can't stay here forever. I just don't want to face these new people. Turning towards the window, I stare out of it blankly, looking at the horizon and the sunlight gleaming off of the waves. Slowly, I look at the frame and it takes me a while to realize something—the window can open, and there's no lock on it. I can sneak out if I want. Did they forget? Or did they leave it on purpose?

Revolving back towards the door, I take a few tentative steps forward, freeze, and hug myself, deliberating if I should leave this refuge or not. I should. I really should.

Steeling my courage and rubbing sleep out of my eyes, I pad to the door and put my hand on the knob. It stays there for about a full minute, shaking. Then, I make myself move again, noiselessly turning it and swinging the door slowly open. This isn't locked, either. That's a good sign. Trying to seem as small as possible, I creep through it and down the hall.

The man I see has his back towards me. For a split second, relief floods through me as I recognize the untidy mop of bright blond hair—it's Josh! Prussia did go back for the others!

But the feeling vaporizes as the man turns very slightly. His ¾ profile reveals that he's talking into a cell phone, but the voice I hear is not my friend's. Josh doesn't speak Japanese, either, I remember as I realize the man is speaking it.

That leaves me with one conclusion, and I don't like it.

The man, the country—England—turns the rest of the way around, and it startles him to see me standing dumbstruck in the shadows of the hallway. I take an instinctive step back, even though his features split into what he must think is a gentle smile. "Oh! I thought I had heard you moving about." He says a few hasty words into his cell phone and hangs up to give me his full attention.

I take another step back, which seems to discourage him. "Oh, there's no need to be afraid of me!" he protests. "My name's Arthur Kirkland, and you're at my house in just outside Yorkshire in England."

I already knew his name. I was just hoping that I wouldn't. My one last desperate hope that I was imagining the whole Hetalia thing disappears with his words. Unconsciously, I take a third step away from him and turn back halfway towards the room in which I woke.

"I, um." He falters, maybe not expecting me to react like this. "I understand you've had a rough couple of weeks?" he prompts, trying to get me to talk. When I don't, he adds softly, "It's alright, love; you're safe here, I promise."

Am I? Am I really? Out of all the countries I've met so far, two have directly abused me, one stood back and watched it and said nothing, and only one has acted on my behalf. I don't want to know any more countries.

My breathing is suddenly very quick. I don't know if I should be panicking or not—so far, England hasn't done anything the other countries have, hasn't locked and barred all the exits or immediately started to invade my personal space. My hands clench and unclench on their own accord.

"Um," England draws attention back to himself. "Why don't you come and sit down? I've just made a pot of tea."

Do I have to? I don't want to. Nonetheless, I find myself slowly nodding and following him to a small table to the right of what looks like the kitchen.

"Sorry everything's a bit dusty," he calls as he fetches the tea pot and two mugs. "I normally stay at my flat in London, where I work in the—," he stops himself, and I wonder if he thinks he's said too much. Another thing a normal person wouldn't be wary about. "...In the government," he finishes, but he adds quickly, "a—as an—...an intern, you know, fetching coffees and whatnot—not like I do anything important, or anything...." And he nervously laughs, trying to dismiss his odd behavior.

He sets a mug of tea in front of me on the table. Then, like a thought occurs to him, he jumps up again to rummage around in the kitchen, mumbling, "Pretty sure I have some.... Ah ha!" He comes back brandishing a small plate of what look like charred, misshapen disks that he calls, "Biscuits! Made them myself." He looks very proud of himself.

Unwillingly, a small snort of laughter escapes me. Luckily, I don't think he notices, seeing as he's sticking his head in the fridge to pull out a pint of milk, which he uncaps, smells, recaps, and drops in a trash can. This can't be a coincidence. From the thick and bushy eyebrows, to the forest green sweater-vest he wears, to the inability to cook or bake at all, there's no mistaking that this is, in fact, the personification of England.

"Um, I'm afraid I don't have milk for the tea," he states as he sits down at the table on the other side of me, depositing a bowl of sugar cubes down. I'm still not sure I want to talk to him or accept anything from him, so I say nothing.

England sips at his tea, looking awkward and unsure of himself. After a few tense moments of silence, in which I leave my mug untouched, he tentatively starts, "So, Gilbert told me you've been...," he seems to be thinking for a proper word, finally settling for, "...detained... for the past few weeks...."

When I don't respond, he seems to remember something. "Oh, that's right—Pru—uh, Gilbert mentioned that you don't like to talk. He said you still can, though—you were shouting at him last night, weren't you?"

I don't say anything.

"Um.... How about this—I tell you what I think I know, and you nod or shake your head. Is that okay?" I shrug half-heartedly, which he must take as a yes, because he starts, "You were kidnapped on January 21st." I nod. I'm unsure of the date, but whatever. "You were kidnapped by Ludwig Beilschmidt, Kiku Honda, and Feliciano Vargas." I nod again. "Ludwig Beilschmidt cut your face." I nod.

How does he know all of this? I look up for the first time in a while, and I see he's reading from what seems to be a copy of my file. I move without thinking—I stand and lean across the table, and I yank the manila folder out of his hands. I did this quickly and without warning, so I manage it to catch him off guard.

I can't read any of it, of course, but there are still the pictures in the back. There are more than when I first saw it. There's a close-up of my bruised neck, a close-up of my bruised face, a close-up of my cut, and I pause for a second on the next few ones. I'm lying on a bed crying hysterically with only a blanket covering me. Then there's a close-up of my actual injuries, a very graphic and personal picture that shows a tear in my hymen. I yank the picture out of its protective casing and rip it into shreds.

"I didn't look at that one," England says in a way that makes me think that he did, but without meaning to. I drop the paper pieces into my tea and watch them dissolve. England tuts disapprovingly at that, but he doesn't say anything.

There are more pictures. From there, there are no new injuries to photograph, just old ones that take their sweet time healing. The photos are just of me doing their stupid tests.

I pause over one picture. They caught me sharing a rare smile with Josh. I feel my eyes tear up—why wouldn't Prussia go back for the boys? I take this picture out, intent on keeping it.

"That's your friend?" England asks softly. I nod again, not taking my eyes off my picture. "Gilbert is going to help him and the others as soon as things die down. He's going to be okay."

I shake my head. Josh is most definitely  _not_  going to be okay. I press a hand under my glasses to try to stop myself from crying.

"Will you tell me his name?" he asks gently.

I shake my head again, suddenly very angry at England for existing. Josh is only there because he looks like England. If England didn't exist, Josh would be safe.

Then England does something I can't stand—he calls me by my nickname without earning my permission. "Issa, I understand that you're—."

His words die as I stand up, grab my cooled tea, and throw the mug against the wall, hearing with satisfaction how it shatters.

He's stunned for a second. He doesn't have time to say anything because I dash out of the dining room, making a beeline for the room I woke up in. I slam the door behind me to let him know how I feel, and then, since I don't see a lock, I sink against the wood, keeping it closed.

After a few minutes, England raps on the door. "Did I say something wrong?" he calls.

I instinctively use Josh's one-knock-two-knocks code and rap my knuckles against the wood once.

"That's a yes?" I knock again once. "Okay, and knock twice for no?" Knock. "Okay." There's a silence as he tries to think of what he said that caused me to be upset. "Did I... remind you of something bad?"

I think about it and knock twice, pause, and knock once more. No, but also yes. I just don't like people being informal with me when they don't deserve it. Plus, I haven't liked the name Issa since I heard Hughes say it.

"Is it because... I pressed too hard about your friend?" Knock-knock. "...I don't know what else I could've... oh, is it because I called you Issa instead of Isabella?" Knock. "...I'm sorry. It said in your file that that's what you go by. Is it a just-for-friends kind of thing?" Knock. "Okay. I won't do it again. Will you come out now?"

Knock-knock. "That's fine," he says, but I can almost hear him frowning. "You're safe here, okay? I won't make you do anything you don't want. ...Can I come in?" Knock-knock. I want to be alone. "Okay. I—if you need me, I'll be right out here, all right?" I knock once, letting him know I understand.

 

 

England leaves me alone for a few more hours, and I go back to sleep. I think he pokes his head in every once in a while to make sure I'm still here. About twenty minutes after I wake up for good, he knocks gently and peers in. He sees me sitting in the spindly wicker chair by the window, watching the sunshine glitter on the waves in the distance. He clears his throat. I heard him coming, so I'm not startled. "...Isabella? Do you want something to eat?"

I shake my head, even though I am pretty hungry. "When's the last time you've eaten?" he asks. I shrug. I haven't been keeping track. Maybe two days, and it's not like I ate much the last time they gave me food.

"Why don't you come out here anyway? You might change your mind." I slowly get up, ever the obedient child, and I shuffle down the hall to sit at the kitchen table again. He's cleaned up the shards of porcelain that I smashed. I take one of the blankets from the bed, cocooning myself in it.

I zone out, mostly, missing Josh and the others terribly. I feel so guilty for leaving them behind. They need me.... Well, actually... maybe it's a relief to them that I'm not there to burden them anymore. Josh won't have to coax me into eating anymore. And it's not like I was doing them any favors; I didn't need to protect them, and I was too busy comforting myself to provide any for them.

They're better off without me. Everyone is.

England walks over with two plates in hand. "Okay, I'm not sure what you like, so I just—...." He stops when he notices I'm crying. "...Are you okay?" I shake my head. "Do you want to talk about it?" I consider that, hesitate, and shake my head again.

"...Okay. Well, here you go...." He puts a plate of an unidentifiable charred lump on the table in front of me. He must think it's edible because he eats his own.

After a long time and a lot of courage, I manage to whisper, "I—I w—want to go h—home."

England nearly chokes on his food. When he can control himself again, he says, "It's not safe for you. Now that they know you're gone, they're going to be watching your house."

I didn't think of that, and I look away, sighing.

"So, does this mean you'll talk to me now?" he asks. I shake my head, and his face falls. "Oh." After another minute of silence, he asks, "Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?"

I shake my head again. "Not unless you let me leave."

"Well, I'm not trying to force you to stay here, but it's a lot safer. I used to, um—I used to work with them, before they went bad. I know how they think."

I thought I did, too, but they're completely out of character. "No, you don't. They've changed."

"How would you know?"

I shrug. "I just do." I  _could_  tell him about Hetalia, but I don't want to spook him.

"That's... that's not a good enough answer." A glance up shows me that England looks frightened anyway. Frightened of what I might know about him.

"Yeah, well, I don't have any answers, either," I say, venom lacing my tone.

"Okay, okay, calm down." He holds his hands in a placating gesture, and I have to look away—Josh has the exact same mannerism. "...Gilbert had just mentioned that... you seem to... know... more than you should."

I let out a humorless snort of laughter. "And what exactly should I know?" I ask, knowing how uncomfortable it'll make him.

His face flushes. "Well, I don't know. Why don't you tell me what you know?" I shake my head immediately. "And why not?"

My lip trembles, and I'm not sure if I can make myself answer. "Y—you w—won't let m—me g—go."

I don't look up, but I can almost feel his pitying gaze. "I'm not like them. I'm not going to hold you hostage."

I shake my head again. "I'm n—not supposed to kn—know, but I d—do."

"What do you know?" he asks gently, but I know he must be panicking.

"What they are," I manage in a whisper. "What you are."

"H—how did you find out?" he asks, keeping his voice as level as possible.

"Coincidence." I explain quietly about Hetalia. "I swear, I didn't want to believe it. P—please don't lock me up...."

He looks like he's kind of in shock. "I'm—I'm not going to lock you up," he reassures me. "But this is... very troubling. Does Japan know about this?"

I nod. He asked me if I watched anime. "Can I be done talking?" I hear myself ask, knowing that I'm done whether he says yes or no.

"...Sure." He looks like he wants more answers out of me, though. "Will you write out some things for me, though? I still have some questions." I nod, and for the next few minutes, I just write what about what little I know about my situation.

"...So Joshua Davies is supposed to look like me," he notices. I hesitate, but I nod. "...Is that why you can't stand to look at me?"

 _Don't make me talk about him_ , I write, my hands suddenly shaking.

"Okay," England says, noticing. "No need to get worked up."

I start furiously scribbling, but my writing isn't fast enough, so I end up blurting, "It  _is_  a reason to get worked up—they're going to hurt him, and it's all my fault!"

"You didn't have a say in when you came or when you left," England tells me gently. " _If_  they're hurting him, how is it your fault?"

I shrug helplessly. "Germany hates me more than he hates everyone else. Now that I'm gone... he—he's gonna do wh—whatever it takes to get me back, and if that includes beating Josh, he's okay with that."

He thinks about that. "Let's say you're right. They don't know where you are right now? How would they even be able to let you know they're hurting your friend?"

I shake my head again.  _They know that I'll know_ , I write.  _Plus, they know I'm not alone_.

"...What do you mean?"

 _Wasn't it in my file that they drugged me before P. got us out? She said it was Rohypnol— there's no way I'd be able to break out while it was still affecting me like it was. So they'll know—_  I sigh and put my pen down. I can't write as fast as I want. "S—so they'll know that s—someone h—helped. S—someone who kn—knows the sche—hedule of the people watching the c—cameras in my room."

"Some tea might help your throat," England offers, noticing how hard it is for me to speak. I shake my head. "You can trust me," he tries. I don't dare look at him because I know I'll be facing Josh's sad pleading expression. I shake my head again.

 _No offense, but_ —I stop and cross out those three words. He can take offense if he wants— _trust doesn't come easily._

England sighs. "No, I imagine it doesn't," he muses. "How about this— I'll sit here, and you can help yourself to anything you want. I won't touch your food." When I give him a skeptical look, he adds, "I don't know what you'll choose, and what're the chances that I've drugged every single edible object in this place?"

Slowly, my glare falls away. That's actually good reasoning.

Unless he really  _did_  drug every edible thing in here.

Nah, that would be silly.

So, I find myself nodding again. "One thing, though," England says when I stand. "Please don't break anymore of my dishes?" I give a small, apologetic smile and nod. I do regret that tantrum.

I actually do make myself a cup of tea, and I find some lemon slices for my throat. Since I can't eat much, this will probably keep my stomach from growling.

I put about four sugar cubes in my mug. "...You like sugar," he notices. I shrug and nod. "You won't be able to taste the tea." I shrug again. Figures that England would be a drink purist. The warmth and the citrus really do help my throat.

"...Thank you," I manage after a while of silence.

"You're welcome."

We sit in silence for longer. "C—can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

Something's been on my mind. "...They called my mom to try to get me to talk. ...I hung up on her. They gave me the opportunity I had wanted—to tell my mom that I'm okay—or maybe I would've broken down and begged her to rescue me—that was all I had wanted from day one. And then... I didn't want to talk, so I hung up on her. She needed to hear my voice, and I hung up on her. ...What does that say about me?"

England thinks about it. "I think," he says, choosing his words carefully, "it says that you were... frightened, maybe. Frightened of letting her down or letting her know just how badly you were—are still— hurting. Brave people often loathe letting people know that they're in pain."

I'm crying again. "If I were b—brave, I would've s—said something to her—she  _needed_  to hear my voice. She said she could hear me crying, and now the last time she heard me is when I was breaking down. She's going insane with worry, I just know it. The very least I should've done was say hi."

"But it's not going to be the absolute last time your mum hears you; I'm going to make sure of that."

"Thank you," I manage through my tears.

"You're welcome."

 

Something else is bothering me, and it takes a lot more time for me to gather the courage to ask it—probably around an hour. We moved to the couches, and England is reading my file over again. "Did you know you have a codename? It's Lavender. I wonder why that is. Oh, I know—America has claimed the 'red, white, and blue'—mix those colors and you get light purple. Haha, I get it."

I can't take it anymore. The question bursts from me. "Why are you nice?"

That surprises him. "Why am I nice? Should I not be?"

I shrug. "You're a country. Three out of five that I've met are evil."

"Not all countries are evil. I'd say we're more... chaotic neutral. Like, we're there, and we can influence our countries' leaders, but we can't force them to do anything. Sometimes we nudge them in the wrong direction. It's not often we're able to make political and international decisions. This situation you're in—it seems like it's personal to them. I don't think they're using—... Okay, I'll take that back. I think they might be using funds from their country and disguising it as a research branch."

"There were a lot of soldiers," I agree. A few more moments of silence pass, and I speak truthfully again— "I feel... like... I feel like I should hate you."

He raises a bushy eyebrow. "Do you?"

"...I haven't decided," I answer honestly. "You didn't have any part in this, that I know of, but it's still kind of your fault the others and I are in this mess. We look like you."

"You don't just look like us," England says. "You're somehow... different from other humans. You have this... aura, I guess you could call it. It's a bit heavier than other humans'."

"You do too. I can feel you. Your presence makes it harder to breathe. And... you feel different than the other three—you have your own individual aura. I could always tell who was near without needing to see them."

England considers this. "Well, I'd say that that's odd, but there's a lot of odd goings-on right about now."

"My point is that because we look like you guys, they took us. If none of you existed, we'd still be safe."

"And you're going to blame me for that?" He doesn't look upset; he's just asking.

I think about it. "I don't know. I kind of want to."

"I won't be offended if you do," he says. "But you should know that I'm never going to try to hurt you, okay? I promise you're safe now."

I nod. I don't  _feel_  safe, but I'm tired of talking.

"So, I was thinking that you'd stay with me for a while. They have no reason to believe that you're with me, and if they were to check on me, they'd look at my flat in London, not this place. Is that alright?"

"F—for how long?"

"Maybe until we can get the other hostages safely out of Berlin. I'd estimate... anywhere from a month to six months."

"Th—that's a long time."

"Well, I can't exactly walk up to them and say, 'hello, there, gimme those kids you've been hiding', now, can I?"

I sigh and lean back against my chair, and I nod.

 

 

The next day, it snows. It's snowed six times since January 21st, and I've been kept locked inside for the entire time. I want out; I'm tired of being confined.

"I'm going outside," I tell England as I put my shoes on.

"Wh—?" He looks up from his laptop. "That's not a good idea."

"I'm tired of being cooped up," I protest. Plus, I add in my mind, I wasn't asking permission; I just thought you should know.

So, before he can stop me, I unlock the front door and step outside. The cold, salty air stings my lungs, and I love the stimulation. It's my first free breath in over a month, and I can't hold back my grin. It's the perfect type of snow, too—sticky. It's perfect snowman-making material, so that's what I do.

I've almost got the base as big as I want when England clears his throat to let me know he's behind me. "You'll catch a cold," he chastises, but when I turn around, he's holding a spare winter coat and mittens. I beam.

He helps me with the snowman, even fetching a carrot from the kitchen for the nose. I gather the stick-arms and face-rocks. It's the most beautiful snowman I've ever made.

"Alright, have you gotten your wiggles out, now?" England asks, dusting snow off his gloves. I nod. "Great. I'll make some tea."

 

 

I insist on making dinner, since I doubt I could stand another one of England's meals. I make chicken noodle soup, an easy enough dish for a novice. I'm surprised England has all of the ingredients. For the first time in a month, nobody has to force or coax me into eating.

 

 

The good day ends around midnight when I wake up screaming after only an hour of sleep. I admire England's response time—it only takes about five seconds for my door to slam open. "What's the matter?! Are you alright?!"

I'm breathing heavily, but I manage a small nod. "F—fine," I whimper. "N—nightmare." In my dream, I'm pinned under a rock surrounded by people mocking me, kind of like that guy in The Crucible who's accused of being a witch and gets crushed to death. For me, though, the people are hissing, "You can run, but you can't hide—come out, come out, wherever you are—we're going to find you, Issa—there's no running from us—" and the like. The rock on top of me transforms into a man, whispers, "Gotcha," and grabs my throat, and I'm so frightened I wake myself up.

"Must have been some nightmare," England says.

"D—did I wake you?" I ask nervously. I hate being a burden.

"No, I was up doing paperwork." He walks up to my bedside and asks, "May I sit?" I wipe my streaming eyes, wrap myself up in the blanket, and nod, shifting to make room for him. "Do you want to talk about it?"

I shake my head, but I find myself telling him about it anyway. "...If I were back in Berlin," I add, "I'd be throwing up and hitting my head against the wall."

"...Well, that's not fun," he says awkwardly.

It surprises him when I initiate physical contact, something I haven't allowed during my short time here. A spark jolts through me when our skin touches, but I ignore it and press my forehead against his shoulder. "H—he's going to f—find me," I hear myself crying.

"No, he's not," England soothes quietly, gently patting my head. "Not if I can help it."

A few minutes pass before I can stop crying. "...Hey, England?"

"Yes?"

"You can call me Issa, if you want."

 

 

Breakfast the next morning is slightly awkward, but a lot nicer.

 

 

England doesn't notice my necklace until the fifth day. When he does, he literally drops his mug of tea. "...Oh my goodness."

"What?" I ask warily.

"Oh m—!" England slaps his forehead and points at my leaf necklace "Where were you born? What's your birthday?"

"Ottawa," I answer truthfully, not reassured in the slightest, "and July 1st." I was born in Canada, but I'm an American. My dad was a native Canadian, but my Mom is American. My family moved to Washington DC when I was two.

He drags his hand down his face, still watching my leaf pendent dangle from its chain. "They made a mistake." When I don't reply, he says again, "They made a mistake. Don't you get it? Born in Canada, on Canada Day, found wearing a  _maple leaf_ —oh my God—it's so obvious! You're not supposed to be like America at all! You're like Canada!"

My mouth drops open as his words sink in. "So—.... I wasn't even part of whatever the hell they were doing? All—all this—," I gesture vaguely, "—was never even supposed to happen?!"

"Maybe not... maybe not to you, specifically...." He rubs his chin. "But that means there's someone out there they were looking for.... Do you think they connected the dots eventually?"

Still reeling from the news that a mistake needlessly put me through so much pain, I realize I'm shaking my head, but I shouldn't be. "Yeah. Just before I got this," I point at my cut, "Germany grabbed my shirt and noticed my necklace. I didn't let him get a great look at it, but.... But, with the birthdays! The birthplace! What, did they think that I was close enough a match for America!? It's not like they didn't have the time to stop and think! I was the first they grabbed!" I bury my face in my hands, overwhelmed once again with rage.

I can feel England's empathetic gaze on me. "...Maybe they decided to overlook that when they noticed personality?"

"Personality?" I echo incredulously.

"Well, from what I'm seeing, you seem... like America. Stubborn and tempestuous, I mean."

I shake my head. "No. I'm almost never like this, not unless I'm really pissed off, and I have never been this angry."

"Which is completely understandable. But this means.... If they did figure out they grabbed the wrong lookalike... doesn't it make sense that they'd go and try to rectify their mistake? Look for America's real lookalike?"

I shrug helplessly. "I'm giving up on trying to understand them."

"Well, I suppose I should introduce you to the real America. He'll have access to the list of Americans, registered or unregistered, and we'll see if we can identify his real lookalike before they do."

 

 

"I don't have a passport," I tell England.

"You won't need one," he assures me, and he leads me to his car, an old-fashioned station wagon.

I open the door to the passenger seat, and I'm about to get in when I notice the steering wheel. "Oh."

"You want to drive?" England jokes.

"No, your car's wrong," I quip.

"No it's not."

"Most of the world drives on the right side of the road," I point out, moving around the car to the other seat. "The right side is the  _right_  side."

"Oh, whatever," he answers, chuckling nonetheless.

He drives off. A couple of minutes down the road, I ask, "So, do you have your own plane?"

"Nope. I don't need one."

"How are we gonna get to America, then?"

"I'm going to teleport," he says simply.

I frown, letting that sink in. "...Teleport."

"How d'you think you got here?"

"I dunno, some sort of weird magic thing?"

"Well, you're not entirely wrong." He gives me a knowing smile. "It's the same sort of magic that keeps us alive for so long. Can you imagine how tedious it would be to have to travel by plane every time we wanted to visit a different country? And by country, I mean the  _person_ , not the  _place_."

"How does it work?" I ask, enthralled.

He chuckles at my enthusiasm. "Well, first, I have to be in motion. It doesn't matter how fast I'm going as long as I don't stop. Then, I have to concentrate on leaving. There's no set destination, but it helps if I visualize where I want to be."

"Like in Harry Potter," I remark.

"Kind of, yes. But with this, I can teleport the entire vehicle and everyone in it." He grins. "Okay, are you ready?" I don't think I am, but I nod anyway, genuinely curious. "Here we go."

Then, a bright light flashes around us, and England keeps driving. It suddenly feels like I'm free-falling, and I shriek, but I can't hear my own voice, only the whoosh of wind flowing all around me.

It stops abruptly. England didn't slow down at all, and we end up cruising down the road as fast as we had been. He shifts over into the right lane. This road is abandoned; it's dark here, and there are a lot more trees.

I can't say anything, too shell-shocked. England glances at me and laughs at my expression. "Are you okay? It can be a bit nerve-wracking."

"That... was... uncomfortable. C—can every country do that? 'Cause that explains a  _lot_."

"Yes; it  _is_  the preferred method of long-distance transportation with us." He pulls out onto the freeway, merging into the traffic. "The magic always drops us on a secluded road close to where we want to go, so it's not like we'll just appear in front of someone."

"Josh and I talked about it," I admit. "We thought it was weird that we got there so quickly. We were wondering if the drug they used to knock us out kept us under for, like, ten hours, with me, especially."

"Probably not," he muses. He completely ignores the 'Keep right unless passing' sign, driving in the left lane. He goes strictly the speed limit, causing people to pass him on the right. I only have my learner's permit, but I know that's not something you're supposed to do.

I look out the window and gasp. "I know where we are!" I exclaim. We're driving into DC! I point out the hills to the right. "I live over there." I know we can't go there, but I still gaze wistfully in that direction until the road turns, putting the hills behind us.

We pull off at the next exit, driving past residential street after residential street until we're almost out of the city. On the last block sits a single colonial house with a long driveway. It has the entire block to itself, so there's no immediate neighbors. The truck in the driveway is silver and  _massive_. England pulls up to its side, and he turns off the car and gets out, gesturing for me to do the same.

He strides up to the door and knocks. I can't help but flinch a little bit when a dog starts barking. A big one, by the sound of it.

No one responds to England's knocking or the dog's barking. He sighs, and he moves the welcome mat out of the way, revealing a key, which he uses to let himself in. "He won't mind," he assures me upon noticing my doubtful look.

"Shoo," he tells a giant black canine, nudging it with his foot. As soon as the beast smells England, he calms down a little bit. Then it turns on me, and it starts howling again when it doesn't recognize my scent. England grabs it by its collar, pulling it away from me and into the house. "He's loud, but he doesn't bite," he assures me.

We're barely in the front hall when a shadow leaps from the stairs in front of us, landing directly on top of England.

" _Ow!_ " England exclaims from under the mass of wadded up blankets. "Get  _off_!" The dog resumes his examination of me, pausing every few seconds to bark.

"Oh, it's just you!" the person notices, getting up. "Sorry, bro. I was just watching The Purge, and I heard someone open the door, and—."

"Don't you ever  _sleep_?" England asks in exasperation, getting up and irately dusting himself off.

"Oh, hey, Mattie," he tells me, completely ignoring England. He's wearing a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, and he's bundled up in a thick blanket. His hair, wheat blond, is messy and sticks up, especially in the front, and he pushes his wire-framed glasses up his nose, grinning at me. "Since when do you hang out with—." He stops and gasps dramatically, pointing at me. "Your face! Did you guys do something dangerous  _without me?!"_

I stand frozen in the doorway, unable to speak. It's  _America_.

"America, no," England says seriously. "This is—."

He trails off as America ignores him again. "Don't worry," he says, wrapping his arms around me and lifting me up in an enthusiastic embrace, "hugs make  _everything_  better!" I let out a pathetic wheeze as his arms tighten. The dog jumps on his hind legs, putting his paws on America's back, which he ignores. He drops me without warning, recoiling. "Ow! You shocked me!"

I still can't speak. I just back away a little bit, gaping. "America, stop!" England says sternly, stepping in between us. "She isn't Canada!"

"Whassup, buddy?" he asks the dog quietly when he refuses to stop howling at me. "You know him!" America looks at England like he's the dumbest person in the world. "Uh, I think I know my own  _twin_  when I see him. Right, Mattie?" His smile drops off his face as he looks at me again. "...Oh. Wait."

"America, this is Isabella," England introduces. "She was—."

He frowns suddenly. "She's a  _kid_ ," he points out stupidly.

"Yes, I know she's a kid," he replies impatiently. "She was—."

America frowns, taking a step away from me. "She knows who we are," he notices, growing serious. Narrowing his eyes at the other, "England,  _why_  did you bring her here?!"

"If you would just let me  _finish_!" he exclaims in frustration. "Germany, Japan, and Italy kidnapped her."

"What? Nah, they wouldn't do that."

"They  _did_ ," he insists. "Let me explain."

America hesitates, frowning at me. "...Fine." Then he turns and walks farther into the house.

England sighs. "Sorry, Issa. He's being  _very rude_!" he calls at the other's retreating back. "Come on." I follow him nervously as we trail after America. The massive black dog escorts us, still sniffing my legs.

The front hall splits into three paths. We went down the middle one, which leads to a living room. It's more like a gaming room, actually. The giant flat-screen TV on the wall is the centerpiece. One long couch makes a U around it, and there's a coffee table close enough to the arc of the couch that the person sitting there can rest their feet on it. Directly under the TV is, like,  _every_  gaming console known to man wedged between two shelves full of various discs. It kind of bothers me that there's no specific order to them; I would at least organize them by what console they go with. Behind the couch, to the right of where we entered, is the kitchen, sectioned off by hardwood floors as opposed to the shag carpet on the floor of the halls and living room. It's a lot cleaner than I expected.

America goes right ahead and flops on the far side of the couch, putting his bare feet on the coffee table, still squinting suspiciously at me. I feel very vulnerable, and I basically hide behind England until we sit. The dog sits on the couch next to me, sticking his face into the crook of my neck to smell me more. I'm not afraid of him, so I gently pet his snout. He starts to lick my face. "Canada should be here too; this concerns him, as well," England says.

"I wanna know what's going on," the other demands.

"You and me both. Call him," England quips sternly.

America sighs, but he pulls out a cell phone. I notice that the case is decorated like the American flag. He presses a button and holds the phone to his ear. "Yo, Matt. Get over here. Yes,  _now_. There's a thing happening that you apparently should know about. 'Kay. See you soon." He hangs up, and he crosses his arms at me. "Bane. Down." The dog— Bane, I guess—who is extremely interested in the taste of my hair, ignores him. America just sighs. England says something about him needing to train him better.

His disapproval makes me sad. America is one of my favorite characters; I guess I was just hoping he would like me. At least be open-minded. He basically rejected me as soon as he realized I'm human. Turning more towards Bane, I wrap my arms around his thick neck, hiding a little bit.

"Who told her about us?" America barks, refusing to acknowledge me. "Was it you?"

"Stop being so mean," he scolds. "None of this is her fault."

"She's not supposed to know!" he snaps.

"Well, don't blame her! Blame Japan!"

"Why would I do that?! What does he have to do with anything!"

"I'll  _tell_  you when Canada gets here!"

"Tell me now! I don't wanna wait!"

"Of course you don't, but you'll just have to be patient," England huffs.

America groans and flops sideways, acting like waiting is the worst possible inconvenience. "What's her name?"

"She can  _hear_  you," he answers. "Ask her yourself." I look at England and shake my head. I'm not going to talk in front of America; he doesn't deserve it. He understands and sighs. "Her name is Isabella, and she doesn't like to talk in front of people she doesn't like."

"Fine with me," he snorts, crossing his arms.

England starts going on a rant in Japanese, probably to make sure I won't eavesdrop. America interrupts with a, "Fine,  _fine_ , I'm  _sorry_."

He doesn't sound very sorry. England explains, "He doesn't much like humans, so please don't take anything he says personal. It was only last year a group of hunters almost got him." I nod, trying to make them stop talking to me. I'm starting to feel the overwhelming urge to run and hide, which I know I can't do right now.

When I stop petting Bane for a moment, he whines pathetically, crawling closer to lay his massive head on my lap. I continue to stroke him, and he closes his eyes in contentment.

There's a knock on the door, and America jumps up to answer it. Bane follows, howling. I hear him greet the other person, and then he comes back, leading a person who looks exactly like him. Bane is trying to jump high enough to lick his face.

 _Canada_.

A rush of different emotions fill me. For one thing, Canada is my number one favorite character. I just related to him so much. But I don't know how he'll respond to me. Will I be an inconvenience to him? Or, will he be willing to help? I don't know. I expected friendliness from America, and I was rejected. What will Canada think? I'm suddenly very aware of my wrinkled clothes and the dog slobber in my hair and on my face.

He and I make eye contact. "Uh...," he says, still staring at me. "...Hi."

"...Hi," I respond, sitting stiffly on the couch. As if he senses my fear, Bane jumps back onto the couch with me, licking me again.

"Issa," England says, "this is Canad—."

"Matthew!" he interjects. "I'm  _Matthew_  Williams." He looks at England, widening his eyes like he can't believe he almost slipped up and told me his country name.

"She already knows," America grumbles as he passes me, plopping ungracefully where he was.

"Uh—wh—what? Y—you—," he stammers, looking at me worriedly. I nod shakily, not taking my eyes off him. I feel so small here, so exposed. I'd rather be back at England's place with just him. Or just by myself. Having this giant hound here helps, though. I love animals, especially dogs.

"Issa here was kidnapped by the former Axis," England explains. "She recently escaped. They're planning something, something that involves abducting human children that bear certain similarities to the former Allies."

"B—but," Canada starts, sinking down next to America. "Why would they do that?"

"...We don't know," England answers. "They said they wanted to test the kids they stole; test them for strengths and weaknesses, talents and limits, the like. They cut her hair to look just like yours, America."

"What does that have to do with me?" Canada asks.

"They made a mistake," he responds. "Issa is supposed to look like you, not America. That means there's still someone out there who resembles him; we think the Axis is going to hunt them down."

America squints, displeased. "That's all you have to go on?" he says, starting to get irritated. "A human kid scared beyond reason shows up and says there's some sort of plot against us, and you just  _believe_  her?"

"She didn't just  _show up_ ," England retorts. "Prussia took her to me.  _He_  knows there's something going on. You can ask him if you want, but I wouldn't recommend it; Germany already suspects that he let her escape, and he needs to lie low for a while."

"Lie low—ooh, what a good excuse. How do you know they're not just pulling an elaborate prank?" Turning to me, "You're in on it, huh? Getting a good laugh?"

" _America_ , you had  _better—._ "

England stops when I shoot to my feet. I take the decorative vase of fake flowers from its spot on the coffee table and throw it at America. He ducks just in time, and it shatters against the wall. "Hey!" he yells indignantly.

I jump over the back of the couch and run to the front hall. England catches me there. "Issa, Issa—stop, Issa, hold on—."

I still can't make myself talk, so I do the next best thing to express myself and punch England in the stomach. It doesn't hurt him, but he gets my message and stops trying to grab me. "I can take a lot of crap," I manage, my voice heavy and shaking with emotion. "A  _lot_  of crap. But I  _can_ not and  _will_  not  _sit there_  and be  _disrespected_  by the likes of  _him_!"

"Okay—okay," he says hurriedly, trying to make me calm down without actually saying the damning words, "I'll make him apologize."

"I don't want him to  _apologize_ ," I snarl. "I  _want_  him to throw himself into a  _woodchipper_!"

"Well, that's just unreasonable," he dismisses.

" _Fine_ ," I growl. "But I don't want his apology unless he means it."

"That's better." He ushers me back into the living room. I can tell America is waiting for  _my_  apology, but I don't bother, because I'm not sorry, and I'm not going to lie.

They have an argument in Japanese. A loud one. I press my hands to my ears and bury my face in Bane's fur. Bane is all-too-eager to lick the tears off my face.

After a few minutes of this, I hear someone getting up—Canada. Looking at me with kind eyes, he offers, "Want to go to a different room?" I nod. I don't care that I don't know Canada—I don't care he's the reason I got kidnapped—I just want away from the shouting.

"Don't touch anything!" America snaps after me. It's all I can do to keep myself from turning around and flipping him the bird; that would only escalate the situation.

Canada takes me to a room upstairs, the first door to the left at the top of the staircase. It's like a giant gaming room—there's another set of every console, plus stacks upon stacks of every type of game,  _plus_  other things, like a ping-pong table, a foosball table, and a few arcade games.

"Let's play a game, eh?" Canada suggest quietly. I shrug. He brings out Jenga, and I shake my head, showing him my trembling hands. He nods and brings out a deck of cards. "Go fish?"

I shrug again, and he takes that as a yes, so we sit down at a table in the corner. He deals. "...I'm really sorry about Al; he's normally not so mean.... Any 3's?"

I hand him the one 3 I have without saying anything. He asks for kings, and I shake my head. I hold up five fingers. "...You don't talk much," he notices as he hands me two 5 cards.

I nod. "...England says that you were—." I interrupt him by holding up one of my queens. He tsk's and hands me another. "...You don't want to talk about it?" he asks. I nod, and I set down my last pair, winning the game.

"I understand," he tells me. "Wanna play again?" I shake my head, turning in my chair, pulling my feet up, and crossing my arms over my knees. "Quitting while you're ahead, eh? Smart."

Someone knocks quietly at the door, and I whirl around. America is there, looking apologetic. "What'cha playing?"

My anger gets the best of me. I grab the neatly-stacked deck, say, "52-card-pickup," and hurl the cards at him, watching with satisfaction at the mess it makes.

"That wasn't very nice," Canada scolds gently. I cross my arms on the table and pivot to face away from him.

"No," America says, "I wasn't nice. I'm— I'm sorry, Isabella, I was just—." I interrupt him by putting my middle finger up. "Okay. Yup. I deserve that, too."

Glad we agree, I think.

"Good, we're all getting along now?" England asks, bustling into the room. "That great, but we still don't know who America's  _real_  doppelganger is."

"I can access my database," America offers. He turns on the massive flat-screen TV and logs in with his laptop. A huge list of names pops up. "Gimme some parameters."

"Birthday—July 4th. Hair, blond; eyes, blue; Um, born in Washington DC. Let's say between 13 and 18 years old."

One name is left on the list. "Zachary Richards. Oh, look, he's a twin—Josie Richards, born a few minutes before midnight on July 3rd."

"Let's go pay the Richards' a visit."

 

 

The car ride is tense and mostly silent—America and England keep switching the stations from heavy metal to classical the entire ride. Canada makes quiet remarks every now and then, trying in vain to get me to speak. "They sure do fight a lot, eh?" I nod.

"There—," England says, pointing to a house on the left. "That one."

America turns off the headlights, turning down the back street and parallel parking behind a dumpster. "What's the plan? Show up and say, 'Hey, Mr. and Mrs. Richards! We're gonna take your son because we're  _pretty_  sure he's in danger!'"

I look out of Canada's window and freeze, feeling like an icicle has stabbed through my stomach. Shakily, I reach into the front seat and grab England's sleeve. "What? What's the matter?" I point out to my right, and he sees what I see—the Axis' van, idling in the street. "Oh, dear."

America reaches over England to open the glove compartment, and he pulls out one, two, and then three pistols. "I was  _hoping_  I could get some use outta these."

"This  _hardly_  seems necessary—," England starts, but America pushes the gun into his hands. He reaches back and gives Canada the other one.

Looking at me through the rear-view mirror, he tells me, "Stay here, okay? Don't want you getting hurt." He's still acting gentle, trying to amend for his earlier behavior.

He doesn't have to tell me twice. I shakily nod, eyes still locked accusingly on that terrible black van.

The three get out of the car, sneaking along the rows of houses until they're out of sight. I stay as still as possible; maybe I'm hoping that they won't be able to see me if I don't move. The stillness of the night is eerie, but it's even more unnerving knowing what's going on inside that poor kid's house. He should be able to feel safe in there; now he never will again.

Across the street, I see three silhouettes moving swiftly towards the van. The biggest one holds another.

I can't think—I'm terrified. But my body moves on impulse, jumping into the front seat and blowing the horn. I see the figures start to move faster, which is the opposite of what I wanted, so I dive out of the van and sprint across the snowy yard.

"HEY!" I shout when I get close enough. Germany, holding Zack over his shoulder, whirls around. "Put—him—down."

This is stupid—this is  _so_  stupid. I have no weapon, no leverage—the only thing I can think of is to keep distracting them, so that's what I do. "Look, I'm talking again. Isn't that what you wanted? Put him down, and I'll keep talking. Yes, just like that." Germany drops the boy like a sack of potatoes and starts marching towards me. "Okay—um, wait, wait, wait—stop it—stop moving!"

A sudden deafening  _BANG_! sounds throughout the cul-de-sac, and Germany grunts, clutching his shoulder. I look towards the Richards' house, and I see America sprinting towards us. "Get back!" he shouts at me. I listen to him, backpedaling, and I trip over the curb and land in the snow. America starts yelling in Japanese, gun still drawn. Germany glares at him, but he listens to his better judgement for once, and he gets into his van, yelling for the others to do the same.

Japan had just started injecting Zack with the knock-out drug when he turns and starts to run for the retreating car. He hops in the open back doors, slamming them behind them. They don't go very far before a blinding light surrounds them. By the time it fades, they're gone.

I take shaky steps towards the street. England runs up to me, grabbing my shoulders so I'll look at him. "Issa, are you okay?"

"Yeah," I manage shakily, and I brush him off, still walking. "Yeah, I'm okay."

I can hear America behind me, yelling, "Isabella, that was  _dumb_! He could've  _got_  you!" I think I mumble back that yeah, I know, whatever.

I kneel next to the feebly thrashing boy still laying in the street. Japan dropped the syringe after he stuck it in his neck, and it's still half-full. Zack's eyes are already starting to close. His glasses are skewed. I slowly peel the tape off his mouth. "It's okay," I tell him gently, pulling his head onto my lap. "I got you. You're safe."

He's crying weakly. "Wh—who...?" He lets out a shaky breath, and his eyes shut completely, going limp.

Canada moves silently towards me, and he picks up Zack, who's still tied up. We walk back to America's car, and I can't stop trembling. America and England are in front again, and I get in back with Canada and Zack. I position the unconscious boy so that he leans on me, and I wrap my arms around him.

"Do you know him?" Canada asks me softly, noticing how I won't let him go.

I shake my head, but I'm crying all of a sudden. It's just that this brings back too many bad memories. A month ago—not  _even_  a month ago— _I_ was the one getting drugged and carried around. "H—hits too cl—close to home," I manage.

"Oh!" he seems pleased that I spoke to him. "But we're protecting him."

"I kn—know." I cradle the stranger's head on my shoulder, gently feeling his hair. I know this is kind of creepy, but I can't stop. "Th—this is  _me—_ a while ago, this was  _me_...."

Gently, Canada reaches over Zack to touch my shoulder. This is the first time we've made contact, so I feel a spark, and he must feel it too, but he doesn't move. "You're very brave," he tells me. "I know it must be hard for you."

I nod, still crying. "I'm sorry for being mean to you," I say after a while. "To both of you," I add, looking at America's eyes in the rear-view mirror.

"No problem," he answers, flashing me a smile.

"Yeah, don't worry about it, eh?" Canada says, giving my shoulder a pat.

After a couple more minutes, I stop crying. America teleports, and we're back in DC, headed towards his house. About halfway there, I give a watery laugh. "He's drooling on me."   
  
  
  


Canada picks Zack up again and carries him into America's house, careful not to hit his limp head on the doorway. "Put 'im on the couch," America says. Canada does, laying him on the side of the long couch closest to the wall, resting his head on the arm. He pulls out a knife from his pocket, and I freeze for a second, but he only cuts through the duct tape around the boy's wrists. Then, he pulls open a drawer on the coffee table, bringing out a large, fluffy blanket, and he spreads it over him. He shoos Bane away when he starts to lick the unconscious boy's face.

I sit where the couch starts to bend, close to Zack, but respectful of his personal space. America goes in the kitchen, and he starts making a pot of coffee. I hear England scoff quietly at his choice of hot beverage, but he doesn't say anything.

"Hey," I call out softly, leaning my chin on the back of the couch. America turns to me, eyebrows raised, seeming happy that I'm talking. "Thanks for saving me."

He smiles softly. "Y'know, you wouldn't've needed saving if you'd just stayed in the car," he says, but I can tell he's joking. "But Zack wouldn't be here if you did. We would've been too late if you hadn't distracted them."

"And while that was very brave," England interjects, sitting next to me, "it was also  _reckless_  and  _dangerous_  and, frankly,  _stupid_."

"I know," I answer. "Honestly, I'm surprised I didn't faint."

 

 

We don't do a whole lot after that. Bane curls up next to me, snoring. England and Canada both fall asleep on the couch after about an hour, but I don't, and neither does America. The silence between us is awkward.

"Hey, Isabella?" he says after a while.

"You can call me Issa," I offer.

"Okay, cool. Issa," he corrects himself. He seems to be hesitating, like he wants to ask a question, but he doesn't know if he wants to hear the answer. "...Did Japan try to kill you? It's just— y'know, he's my friend, and I thought he was done with all this sketchy stuff."

"Um, kind of.... He put his knife against my neck at school when I tried to run, but, other than that, he was mostly just trying to keep Germany from killing me." I give a small chuckle. "I could  _really_  piss Germany off. Like, I'd  _breathe_  and he'd hit me."

"So it was Germany who did that to you?" he asks, gesturing vaguely at me.

"Yeah, uh. He cut me, and he strangled me, but this," I hold up my bandaged hand, "was my own fault. I punched him."

"Nice," he grins.

"I busted his lip, too," I add proudly.

"Oh, so he did the same to you?"

I deflate a little bit, reaching up to touch the small graze on my bottom lip. It's mostly healed, but it stuck around for so long because I kept picking at it. I had forgotten for a while. "N—no, th—that was... someone else."

"Who?" he pesters. I don't think he noticed the change in my mood. "Not Japan, right? And I can't picture Italy hitting anyone except on accident."

"Italy," I blurt out, rubbing my nose. "Y—yeah, Italy. It was... an accident...."

"You're a really bad liar," he points out bluntly. I look away from him. "C'mon— who cut your lip?"

I open my mouth to answer and then close it. I do that twice more. Finally, "His name-.... His name is V—Victor H—Hughes," I force myself to say, cringing as the name leaves me. "H—he's—the—.... He's the guy that—... that  _rap—."_ My voice breaks, and I turn away, closing my eyes.

"...Raped you?" he guesses. I nod silently, pushing tears back. I want to be done crying. He rushes over and sits next to me. "Oh,  _dude_ , I'm  _so_  sorry! I didn't mean to make you- "

"It's okay," I dismiss quickly. I lean on America's arm, wiping my eyes. He hugs me, and I accept, still just trying not to cry. I've been needing a good hug. "...I—...I feel...  _dirty_ ," I admit quietly.

"No," he tells me firmly. "No, you're not dirty. It's not your fault. Those sick bastards don't take no for an answer." He gives my shoulders a reassuring squeeze. "You're not dirty."

"Thanks," I manage, cuddling a little bit closer. A moment passes before I add, "If he didn't drug me, I would've knocked his damn teeth out."

America snorts with laughter, and he pats my shoulder. "Right on, sister."  
  
  


We sit in silence for a while more, and I feel a little bit better. America pulls out his phone and starts playing a game. I keep leaning on his shoulder, acting as kind of a backseat-driver. "Shoot that guy. No—not that one,  _that_  one. He's gonna—awh, he got you."

"What, you think you can do it better?" he asks, albeit good-naturedly.

"Yes," I reply, taking the device from him. I lose a couple of lives, but I end up clearing the level. I have to cheer for myself quietly because the others are still sleeping. "Okay," I calm down. "Can I use your bathroom?"

"Yeah, down the hall, to the left," he says, pouting as he tries to pass the level for himself. Bane whines when I get up, but he doesn't follow me.

I stop in front of the mirror, looking at my reflection. My blue eyes stand out, surrounded by puffy purple skin. The skin around my cut is still red. It's almost completely scabbed over, but it still looks gross. Again, I have to ruffle my hair, wishing for its original length. There's nothing I can do about either of those things, though, so I guess I'd better just accept my appearance and move on until things go back to normal.

I'm about to step out of the bathroom when I hear screaming.

I fling open the door and rush back to the living room. Zack's awake, and he's freaking out. "Who are you?! Where are we?! What do you want?! No, no, no—get away from me!"

I'm surprised he's able to be so loud. He's gotten off the couch, stumbling around the room. America is trying to calm him down, and England and Canada have just woken up, too alarmed to do anything right now. Bane tries to 'help' by chasing Zack around, jumping up to try to lick his face.

Zack trips over his own feet, and I jump forward to steady him. "Hey! Hey, hey, hey! Shh—you're okay! I got you!"

He desperately squirms in my grasp, shouting nonsense that vaguely sounds like profanity. I have to lower him down, and he scuttles away from me. "Get off! Lemme go!" He tries to get up again, but he fails, landing on his hands and knees. "Josie?!" he cries, searching for her.

"Zack—hey—," I drop in front of him, holding him by his shoulders. "Just breathe, okay? You're safe...." I push the massive wall of black fluff away when he starts to slobber on Zack's face.

His eyes slowly focus on me. "I  _know_  you," he tells me almost accusingly, reaching up to cradle his head. "What do I know you from...?"

"My name is Issa," I tell him, keeping pressure on his shoulders. "I was there right before you passed out. Do you remember that?" When he just stares at me blankly, I ask, "What do you remember?"

"I—I was... I was going to sleep," he recalls, his words slurred a little bit. He looks like he's trying really hard to concentrate. "Then I—...I woke up because someone grabbed me.... They.... They tied me up, put tape over my mouth.... He had-—," He breaks off with a gasp. "He had a  _gun—_ where's my sister?!" Struggling to stand up again, he yells, "Josie?!  _Josie?!_ "

"Shh, shh," I soothe, pulling him back down, holding his hand. "Josie's okay—Josie's safe. Don't worry about her."

"Where am I?!" he demands, his eyes tearing up. "Why am I here?!"

"C'mere, buddy," America says, lifting him by his arm. I help, steering him back to the couch. Zack's adrenaline seems to have run out, so the only thing he can do is cry. We sit him down, and he can barely keep himself up. He keeps his eyes open wide, staring at all of us with terror.

I wave my hands at the countries. "Give him some space, guys. You're crowding him."

"I can't see," he whimpers.

"Glasses?" I ask America. He hands the spectacles to me, and I gently slip them on his face. "There. Better?" He nods weakly, trembling. "I'm Issa," I remind him. "Isabella, if that's easier to remember. This is...," I trail off, looking towards the other three. I don't know whether or not I should call them by their country names or not.

"I'm Alfred, and this is Arthur and Mattie," America supplies. "We're at my house in Washington DC."

"But I—I live in—," he stutters.

"Philadelphia, we know."

"Why—?" Zack manages.

"There were these guys after you," I explain. "They're the ones that grabbed you and tied you up. We got to you before they could drive off with you. You're here so we can protect you." I take his hand again and squeeze it. "Everything is okay."

"Why'm I so tired?" he asks, not moving his hand away.

"They drugged you." I guide his hand up, letting him feel the mark on his neck. "We couldn't stop that." I let go of him, but he keeps running his finger on the bump. "I think you're gonna be tired like this for another hour, maybe...."

"Where's Josie?" he questions, dropping his hand.

"She's at your house with your parents."

"I—I need her," he tells us. "We've never been separated—please, I—I need—I gotta go home!"

"Take it easy, dude," America says. "She's safe there; you aren't."

Zack doesn't answer. He just sits there lethargically, still trying to comprehend everything. I remember being a little bit slow when I first woke up. This is just so upsetting to watch. All I know is that I would be crying right along with him if I weren't trying to keep it together for his sake. I feel obligated to be there for him. I've just met him, but I already feel this sort of bond.

The countries have moved away, talking to each other in Japanese. "You okay?" I ask him quietly. He looks at me, and he shakes his head, too overwhelmed to talk. "Y'know, you're pretty lucky. When they took me, there wasn't anyone to stop them. I only got away a couple of days ago."

He squints at me for a second, and then something seems to click. "You—you're that girl from DC. The one that got kidnapped a couple weeks ago."

"I guess," I answer. Bane jumps on the couch and lays his head in my lap, demanding that I pay attention to him.

"Why did they go after you? Why did they come after me?"

I hesitate, glancing back at the countries, who are too preoccupied to answer. "I think we're gonna tell you when you're feeling a little better; it's kind of hard to believe...."

He grimaces, pressing his hands against his forehead. "This isn't fair," I hear him say.

"I know, Zack." I put a comforting hand on his shoulder, feeling myself start to cry again. "I know."


	6. Instinct

After Zack is feeling a little bit better, the nations kind of circle around him.

"Keep an open mind," I remind him. He nods at me, still confused and scared. "The people who tried to take you are the personifications of Germany, Japan, and Italy. They tried to take you because you're similar to the personification of America, who is Alfred. And Matthew and Arthur are the personifications of Canada and England."

He frowns at me. "Personification."

"It means to give human characteristics to a non-human entity," I explain.

"Yeah, I know what it means," he snaps. "It's just.... They're...  _representing_  their countries? In, like, a meeting or something?"

"No, they  _are_  the countries."

His frown deepens. "But... wouldn't they be, like, as old as the country?"

"Yep," America cuts in. "Ooh—I think I have some old-timey pictures. I'll be right back." He runs towards the front hall, and I hear him stomping up the stairs. America's huge black dog, Bane, lifts his head curiously, but he stays glued to my side. 

Zack presses his hand to his face. "Lemme get this straight. You guys are all... some sort of magical, ancient... beings? And I was dragged out of my house in the middle of the night because I  _just_   _so_   _happen_  to look like one of you guys?"

"Yes," England confirms.

Putting his elbows on his knees, he steeples his fingers in front of his face. "Let's pretend I believe you.  _If_  this is true—and it's a big  _if_ —why would it matter that I look like—who is it again? That guy?" He points back in Alfred's general direction. "America? Why would it matter?"

"We don't know that," England answers solemnly.

"Great," he huffs. He slumps against the couch cushions. "So—so—so what does that make  _you_? A  _fairy_?" he stutters at me.

"I'm like you," I tell him patiently. "I'm supposed to look like Canada. Except they didn't know that; they thought I looked like America." I sigh a little bit, trying not to get too angry right now. "They made a mistake."

"If they made one with you, they could've made one with me," he reasons.

"There's no one else to confuse you with."

"No." He stands, wobbling a little bit, and he backs up a few steps. "No, this isn't real. You guys,  _those_  guys, you're—you're all  _nuts_. That's it. You're  _crazy_." He turns around, walking towards the front door. "I'm going home," he announces.

"Zack, it doesn't matter whether or not you believe us," I say, following him. "They'll still take you, and they'll still experiment on you."

" _Experiment_  on me?!" he parrots, turning to me. " _That's_  what they want?!"

"Yes." I would know better than anyone here. Bane pushes his nose into my hand, demanding attention. I ruffle his fur to appease him. 

He crosses his arms, still hovering in the hallway. He looks scared and sad and angry, and I'm sympathetic. This is just newer to him. "And... if I stay here... you guys—...you'll keep them away from me?" he asks quietly.

"Of course, dude," America answers, appearing from the stairwell. He hands Zack a couple of faded yellow cards. "That's me on the right."

Zack frowns, bringing it closer for a better look. "Isn't that—?"

"Yup." He grins. "Eisenhower. This is before he even became a General. I knew there was something special about him."

Zack shakes his head a little in disbelief as he flips through the pictures, but he eventually passes them back to America. "This is  _crazy_."

"You gonna be okay?" I ask. "I know this is a little much to take in...."

He just shakes his head more, but it morphs into a nod. "I—I... I guess...."

He lets me lead him back into the living room. "You're taking it pretty well, all things considered."

Sitting back on the couch, he gives a small, sad smile. "Better than you?"

"Oh, yeah," I return, grinning. "You should've seen me—kicking, screaming, all that jazz."

"Well, considering what you've been through, I'd say you're doing well, too," Canada inputs, smiling at me.

"Oh, right—they actually  _did_  get you," Zack remembers.

I sober, nodding. "Yeah. It wasn't fun." Bane gets on the couch again and tries to sit on me, and I award him a small laugh as I push him off. 

"I can imagine," he answers, grimacing at my injuries.

"Germany did this to me when I splashed some water on him," I explain, gesturing to my neck, where the bruises have faded to a mottled yellow, and then to my hand and face. "This happened when I punched him, and that made him do this." My hand isn't completely healed, either. It doesn't help that I keep trying to use it. 

"Ouch," he says, still wincing sympathetically. "And your lip?"

I keep forgetting about that. Or, almost forgetting. "Someone else. Human. Doesn't matter."

"So," England cuts in before Zack can read into my dismissal too much, "I was thinking we should get together with the rest of the Allies to discuss this." I have to remember to thank him for the distraction.

"Good idea," Canada answers.

"That would be...," Zack asks me.

"Russia, France, and China," I fill in. "China's lookalike escaped with me, but France's, Russia's, and England's are still back in Berlin. That's where they were holding us." I feel a pang of guilt as I think about Josh.

"I'll call France," Canada says.

"China," England says, which leaves America to whine about having to call Russia.

They talk in Japanese to each other, leaving a silence between me and Zack. He clears his throat, drawing my attention. "So, you were only taken a couple weeks ago?"

I nod. "Everything's been happening so fast. Well, the scary things happen fast. The parts after them are  _really_  slow. I spent a lot of time sleeping or staring at a wall, waiting for something to happen."

"How did you get away?"

"There's another country that lives in Berlin with Germany, but he wasn't a part of this whole scheme thing," I answer, recalling the nation fondly. "His name is Prussia. I know that's not a country anymore, but he's still there, and he didn't really agree with what the others were doing, and he helped me and China's lookalike out. I think—I  _hope_ —that he'll try to get the others out."

"He sounds nice, then."

"He is," I agree.

"Is that your dog?" He reaches over me to pat Bane on the snout. 

"No. I guess he just likes me." 

After a few more moments of nonsense-talk, they hang up their phones one-by-one. "They're all coming here," America informs us.

"All of them?" I repeat, not quite sure how to feel. "Russia and France?"

"Is that a problem?"

"No! No, it's just— "I don't know if I should smile or frown, so my mouth just twitches. "They have... reputations...." Russia is supposed to be scary, and France is supposed to be a perv. I like Russia's character, but I'm not particularly fond of big, tall, intimidating men as of right now. I've never been fond of sexual creeps, though, now more than ever. "It's okay; I'm sure they're nothing like the show...."

They nod. I compulsively get up and plop in front of America's shelves of video games, starting to pull some down. "Uh, you wanna play a game?" he asks. As usual, Bane shadows me. When I'm sitting down, he's taller than me. 

"No," I answer, trying to distract myself. "They're not organized; it's bothering me."

"Oh." He sits on the couch next to Zack, who still fidgets uncomfortably. "Okay."

"I've been telling you that for years," England nags. I don't turn around, but I can tell that America flips him off, which England doesn't appreciate.

I pause in my task as Zack silently sits next to me. "How do you want this?" he asks quietly.

I study him for a second. "...By console is a good place to start."

We work in silence for a few minutes, letting the countries behind us talk. "...My friend has OCD," he tells me. "He gets nervous when he gets finicky."

"Uh huh," I answer absentmindedly, creating a pile of X Box games.

"It looks like you're getting finicky  _because_  you're nervous." He stops shelving, looking at me. "Is it because of the guys that are coming over?"

"It's dumb to be nervous," I quip, fumbling a little bit with the slick game covers. "Nothing to be nervous about. They're not gonna hurt me. No one is. I—I'm safe now." I repeat that over and over in my head, trying to make myself believe it. The dog next to me, like he senses my emotion, puts his head on my knee. 

"Will organizing the games make you feel better?" he asks softly.

I stop, looking at him. "You're the one who should feel nervous," I tell him, not quite sure why I'm so miffed at him. "This is all new to you— we basically just kidnapped you."

"I  _am_  nervous," he responds. "Crazy magic beings want to experiment on me, remember? Sounds like an alien invasion or something."

I restack a few more games, quietly wrestling with myself. "It— it's just—." Sighing, I pause again, fingers tracing the cover of a Legend of Zelda Wii game. "I—I guess I'm just...  _angry_. They made a  _mistake_. They weren't  _supposed_  to take  _me_ —they wanted  _you_  the whole time.... They  _hurt_  me. If—if they had just— "I gasp, pulling my hands away from the shelf, "B—but it's not like I'm wishing all that on you!" I correct myself.

"I get it," he nods, not offended. "I'm sorry they hurt you...."

I mimic his head movement, and I put a few more games where I think they should go. "...Yes," I admit after a while, "organizing the games will make me feel better."

"Okay," he affirms, and he helps. "I think it's a control thing," he tells me after a few minutes. "You couldn't control what happened, but you can control how this is supposed to be ordered."

"That makes sense," I hum. After a few more minutes of silence, I add, "Thanks."

"Don't worry about it."

 

We're almost done re-shelving the games by console type when someone knocks on the door. I tense up as America goes to answer it.  "Did you—... tell them about us?" I ask England over the sound of Bane loudly greeting the newcomer.

"They'll know you're here," he affirms, giving me a reassuring smile.

"America didn't take it well," I inform Zack. "He didn't like that a human knows who he is. He didn't hit me or anything, but he wasn't happy."

"Oh," he responds, frowning a little.

America leads someone back into the living room. It's France. He wears a heavy blue coat and red jeans. His boots, damp with snow, are black leather. His hair is blond, and as he walks in, he wipes melted snow from his stubbly beard. Since Zack and I are kind of huddled against the wall, he doesn't notice us at first. He's annoyed, talking to the others in Japanese.

One of the first things he does is pick a fight with England. I can tell because the latter jumps up and cusses at him.

He notices us, and he falls silent. His eyes linger for a long time on me, and I shift uncomfortably. His tone is serious as he talks to the others, who respond similarly.

The next person to show up is China, and he brings Jia Li with him. I make a large arc around the new nation as I go to embrace my friend. "Zack, this is Jia Li. Jia Li, Zack," I introduce, making eye contact with the girl so she knows I'm talking to her.

"Hi," he waves. She shyly waves back. She seems to be scared of Bane, so I pull him away from her a little. 

Russia comes last. With him comes a cold gust of air, which doesn't match the curious smile that plays on his lips when he enters. As the others tell him what's happening, his eyes harden, the smile falling slightly. Bane's ears flatten against his head, and a low growl rumbles in his throat. 

Neither of them seem particularly pleased at my presence. Then again, I wouldn't be either, if I were them. They spend a lot of time and effort trying to remain secret, and a beat-up, scruffy-looking human kid—who knows their deepest, darkest secret, mind you— tells them that their trusted colleagues are plotting something against them with no real evidence or details. They're, understandably, not pleased. I'm turned away from them, but I sit very stiffly as I listen to their gibberish, still hopelessly fumbling with the game cases until I realize that we've finished, and I've got nothing left to distract myself.

"Let's do it by alphabet, now," Zack says quietly, noticing my dilemma.

"Okay," I agree numbly.

What are they saying? Do they think they should be helping us? I hear them introducing us, but I don't turn when I hear my name. "B" for "Bioshock" comes before "C" for "Call of Duty" ....

When we finish that, I move away a little bit, pivoting so I can watch them, and I settle next to the bookshelf, back against the wall, absentmindedly running my fingers through Bane's fluffy coat.  I just have to observe the newcomers. They look  _so much_  like the boys I met in Berlin.... I didn't really get to know Harvey, but I still feel connected to him. I had a moment with Dimah, but we weren't the best of friends, either.... Still, it's eerie to notice the similarities between the countries and their doppelgangers.

Zack freezes suddenly. "These are big, important people, right?" he asks me. I nod, and he cringes. "I'm wearing my Spiderman PJ's!" he hisses, mortified, holding a fistful of his pants leg for emphasis.

I have to stifle a laugh. "They probably don't care about that," I assure him. "Plus, it's none of their business what you wear to bed. Not  _your_  fault you were kidnapped in the middle of the night."

He deflates slowly, still looking embarrassed, and he lets out a small whine.

After that, I kind of space out, but I snap back to attention as I notice the figure looming over me. Russia. He stares down at me quizzically, ignoring the voices of the other nations behind him. They seem to be trying to discourage him from entering my personal space. Bane stands, growling again, which doesn't bother Russia.

Shakily, I stand, using the wall for support. I have to look up to meet his gaze; he's about the same height and build as Germany, but he looks nothing like him. His nose is bigger. Germany's face was made up of harsh angles; Russia's is softer, rounder. He's wearing his tan coat and white scarf, but his coat is unzipped to reveal a plain black turtleneck sweater over khakis and black boots that stretch up his calves. He's making me nervous, but I don't know if I'm scared of him. The way he looks at me isn't malicious at all— it's curious.

He moves faster than I expected, causing me to squeak in alarm. But he's not trying to hurt me. He wraps his arms around me in a hug.

I wasn't expecting this, so it takes a few seconds to respond by returning his embrace. I would be more frightened if he didn't allow me any space to maneuver, but he shifts along with my movement. He smells good; kind of flowery, mixed with the aroma of freshly-baked bread.

"You can tell him to piss off if you wanna," America's voice calls to me from across the room. I wonder if their relationship has always been strained; I know there was the thing in, like, the 50's with communism, but it did get better; then again, I have heard about American/Russian conflicts in current events.

I pull away from the big man, and he acts likewise. "It's okay; he didn't hurt me," I respond meekly. I'm glad he initiated the hug; I have been needing one, but I don't know if I would have been able to ask anyone.

Russia sits back down, leaving me to hover where I am. "We're going to have a sort of intervention," England explains to me. "It's a diplomatic approach; no one else needs to be hurt."

"You're—... You're just gonna... call and ask nicely for them to knock it off?" I paraphrase, frowning.

"That's the plan."

I cross my arms, looking away. "So—all they're gonna get is a slap on the wrist?"

"I understand how you'd like a harsher punishment," he reassures me, joining me where I stand. "But there's not much we can do without there being repercussions reflected in the real world— the global economy, international politics, the like. And that's only if they agree to stop what they're doing; we may be forced into further action if they don't cooperate...."

I sigh, but I guess he's right. I don't want the whole world to suffer for my own personal vendetta. It would be nice to punch them, though, or at least see them get punched.

"They've already seen America on your side," England continues, "so it makes sense to set up a phone conference from here."

"Right now?"

"No. It's very late. We're going to adjourn and reconvene later." Almost on cue, Russia, France, and China get up, chatting to each other in Japanese. China beckons for Jia Li, and he explains what's going on. She hugs me goodbye, and they're out the door. France is next. Russia is last, and he gives me a cheerful wave goodbye, which I shyly return.

Which leaves me, Zack, England, Canada, and America left in the house. We're all tired. We all have different morning times, but none of us have had good sleep lately.

I sit on the couch and claim the blanket Canada put on Zack when we first brought him in. For a while, I recline and just try to pick out bits and pieces of the countries' conversation, but I don't get much. They're talking about me; that much I know. I don't know why Bane decided to be my bodyguard, but he sits at attention on the floor next to me. 

When my eyelids are too heavy to keep open, they leave me be so I can rest.

 

 

I'm chained up, floating helplessly around in zero-gravity. All I know is I can't move. I must be in space. My vision is distorted, but it's not like there's much to see; there's a couple of pinprick lights, but that's it. But it's like I'm looking at them through the inside of a fishbowl. It makes my head hurt.

I try to struggle, but it doesn't help. In fact, it just makes it worse. The more I writhe, the less I can breathe. That makes me panic and squirm harder, which just squeezes more and more oxygen out of my lungs. My back makes contact with something solid but soft. An invisible force presses against my chest, helping force the air from my body. I can't breathe—I can't move—I don't even have the strength to call for help.

Something bends me at my waist, bringing my knees towards my face. No—no, I don't want to be like this—bad things happen when I'm in this position—

From all directions, I feel hands touch and poke and caress and feel my entire body. I try to move away, but that only constricts my airway further. This has to  _stop_ — I can't breathe— _I can't breathe_ —.

 

With a shuddering gasp, I bolt upright. Sunlight streams in from behind a gossamer curtain. I'm in a bed—oh,  _no_ , I didn't fall asleep on a bed— that was all a dream! I'm still in Berlin, locked away where no one will find me.

My glasses aren't on my face, but I don't stop to find them before I struggle out from under the light blue comforter. A door! I lunge at it and turn the handle, which is  _dumb_ —I  _know_  it's not going to admit me, but I need to  _try_ —

...Oh. The door opens.

That means I'm at America's house. That means I'm safe. They must have moved me after I fell asleep. I shakily lean against the door frame, using it for support..

Suddenly, I have to move— I stumble out of the room and down the hall. I'm lucky that the first door I try leads me to a bathroom because I don't get much farther before I collapse in front of the toilet and puke up what little I have in my stomach.

Trembling uncontrollably, I dry-heave for a while before I realize I've got nothing left, and I flush the toilet. I can't make myself move, though. The only thing I can do is sit on the bathroom floor and sob. I flinch when a furry nose pokes my arm, but it's just Bane. I stay still as he licks the tears off my face. 

A soft voice cuts through the silence, making me jump and whirl around. "...Issa? Are you okay?"

I relax when I realize it's Canada. My voice isn't working yet, so the only answer he gets is a feeble shake of my head.

"Bad dream?" he guesses, slowly padding up to kneel beside me. I nod, trying to wipe the moisture from my face, but he's already seen my tears. "D'you wanna talk about it?"

"I—I co— I couldn't m—move; I couldn't  _breathe_ ," I gasp, still struggling for air. "He wouldn't stop  _touching me_ — I couldn't get him away!" I'm hyperventilating, taking quick, short breaths that don't give me enough oxygen.

"Hey, now—shh," he soothes, moving a little bit closer but keeping his hands to himself. "...That wasn't a dream, was it?" I shake my head, confirming that that actually happened to me. "Oh, Issa.... I'm so sorry...."

I shake my head again, trying to dismiss his apology. It surprises him when I lean into his shoulder, throwing one arm around him while the other covers my face. He gently responds, returning my hug. "It  _hurts_ ," I bawl, still unable to control my breathing. "He  _raped_  me, and it  _hurts!_ "

He's silent for a while, rubbing circles into my back. "You're gonna make yourself faint if you keep breathing like that," he says. "Copy me, okay?" And he inhales deeply, holding it for a few moments before exhaling.

It takes me a long time, but I eventually manage to mimic the rise and fall of his chest. Making myself stop crying is a different story, though.

My own voice sounds throughout the room, surprising me. "It's—it's just— "I rub my hand against my eyes. "I keep thinking that this is all just s—some sort of—I dunno—some sort of desperate fever dream or something—that I'll wake up, and I'll—...I'll be back there...."

Canada is silent as he absorbs my words. Then, he pinches me.

"Ow!" I protest, releasing him from my grip so he can see my unamused expression.

"You felt that," he points out. "This isn't a dream, Issa; they can't hurt you anymore. You're safe now."

I nod, still fruitlessly trying to wipe my face. "Okay," I whisper, trying to believe him.

He hugs me again, which I accept. We sit there on the floor for a few minutes. Eventually, I manage to stop crying, just leaning against Canada's chest.

"You must be hungry," he says after a while. I nod; I've been running on empty for a while now. "Come on; I'll make you breakfast. Lunch, I guess—it's pretty late."

He helps me stand and walk down the hall. He stops at the room in which I woke up, retrieving my glasses for me. We're on the top floor of America's house, so we go down the stairs. Canada has me sit at the kitchen table, and then he leaves my side. I lay my head in my arms, letting myself become numb. I would let my mind wander, but I can't think at all; the only thing in my head is white noise, a fog that won't lift.

England's still here. "Issa, are you okay?"m

"I had a nightmare," I inform him softly without looking at him. I only knew him for a short time, but I miss Josh. He was there for me when I thought I was alone in that dangerous new world. And I still feel really guilty for leaving him, so I can't make myself look at England.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he offers kindly.

"No." Bane sits next to me, laying his head on my knee, and I stroke him. 

Canada sets a plate in front of me after a while. He made pancakes; my favorite. I thank him weakly, taking small bites until I'm finished. Like all dogs, Bane whines and begs. I slip him a piece, which he seems to enjoy.

I almost start crying again. This makes me think of home. Whenever I had a bad day, Mom would make pancakes for dinner. That always annoyed Renae; she kept insisting that breakfast foods were for mornings, not evenings. But she would eat anyway. That's our thing; our comfort food is pancakes. I miss them so much.

I can't imagine Renae would have gone to school for the rest of the week. I think it's Sunday now in DC. Would Mom have gone in to work today? She's a surgeon, so she's almost always on call. But I think having your daughter kidnapped in broad daylight warrants a couple of days off.

I bet Grandma Sutherland came down to visit. She's Mom's mom, and she lives in New Hampshire. She stayed with us for a long time after Dad died. Mom was devastated, and so was she, but she helped take care of me and Renae until Mom could get back on her feet. Maybe Grandma and Grandpa Pryce, Dad's parents, are there, too. They kept in touch even after Dad died, and they both love Mom, Renae, and me. I miss them too.

"I want to see my family," I say suddenly. It sounds an awful lot like a demand instead of a request, so I add, "Please."

"They're probably being watched," England reminds me gently.

"We can meet in public," I point out. "I can call my cell phone to set it up. Have them get me a change of clothes or something." I can see they're not entirely convinced, though. "Please," I beg, my eyes watering again. "I need to see them."

"I think it's a good idea," Canada inputs. England is reluctant, but he finally agrees.

"I think I have a burner phone around here somewhere," America contributes. He startled me a little bit; I didn't know he was here. But I'm incredibly grateful when he returns a few minutes with a disposable cell phone.

They set some ground rules for me. I agree to them instantly. I just need to see them.

Shakily, I punch in my own number and put the phone on speaker so the countries can give me advice.

It keeps ringing. It seems like it's ringing forever. I almost give up hope when the phone clicks, and Mom's voice asks, "Hello?"

I breathe a shaky sigh of relief. "Hi, Mom."

I can tell she bursts into tears, and I can't stop myself from crying along with her. "Issa! Are you okay?! Where are you?!"

"I'm okay—I'm okay," I assure her. "I can't tell you where I am, but I'm safe. I got away from the guys that took me, and the guys I'm with now are helping me. I had to convince them to let me call; they think I'm still in danger, and we didn't want to contact you guys because we think they're still watching the house. And I can't say much on the phone; we don't know who's listening...."

"Oh, baby," she sobs. "Thank God you're okay."

"Can we meet up?" I offer. "At two o'clock in front of the Lincoln Memorial?"

"Of course, baby; we'll be there."

"I can't come home just yet," I remind her. "They're probably watching the house to make sure I don't go back. I don't wanna put you guys in danger...."

I hear her sob again, but she eventually says, "Okay.... I just want you to be safe."

"I know, Momma." We just cry for a while. "Um, here's the thing— my new friends are pretty secretive; are there police there?" She confirms that yes, the police have been there, but they're not there right now. "Don't bring them, okay? And just bring Renae with you; no one else...." She agrees to my terms. "And can you bring me some clothes? And maybe a picture? I—I don't know how long I'll have to stay away...."

"Yeah—yeah, we can do that," she manages. "Two o'clock, Lincoln Memorial. Bring clothes and come alone," she repeats to me.

"Mmhm," I confirm. "I love you, okay? I'll see you soon...."

We say our goodbyes, and I hang up.

I get up and embrace America. "Thank you, guys," I manage, sobbing into his shirt. "Thank you so much...."

 

I woke up around noon, so I'm jittery and anxious until the time comes and we leave. One of their ground rules is that I have to wear an earpiece and a microphone—they want to be close enough to make sure I don't slip up and say something I shouldn't and to protect me if something comes up, but they want to be far enough away to not draw attention to themselves. I think they're being paranoid, but I don't want them to freak out and cancel the meeting.

And they've got a good reason to want to protect their identities. I'm sure a lot of people would love a chance to examine the human embodiment of a country. They would probably be subjected to a lot of experiments whether they cooperated or not. I know from the anime that they have contact with the bosses of their countries, so there's that. They must be the best-kept secrets in the government.

America lends me a coat, a scarf, and a hat. The coat for the weather; the scarf for hiding the bruises on my neck; and the hat to try to keep people from looking at me too closely. We get there early, and, after equipping me with the communication tech, they leave me to loiter around on the steps of the monument.

Eventually, I spot Mom and Renae, and I sprint towards them. I forgot that my short hair and new scar make me look different, so my high-speed bear hug probably scares them before they realize it's me.

"Your hair!" Mom gasps after we separate. Renae still clings tearfully to my waist, and I pet her hair with one hand. "Oh,  _Issa_ —your  _face_! And your  _hand_!"

"It's okay—I'm okay," I reassure her, taking her hand. "My hair will grow back, and the cut will heal. Eventually," I add.

"I saw the security footage," Mom sobs, cradling my uninjured cheek. "Issa, he had a  _gun_ —I thought— I thought they were going to kill you!"

"They didn't," I manage, putting my hand over hers. "I—I think it was more for show, honestly. They were looking for  _me_.... They wanted me alive...."

I jump a little at the crackle in my ear. "Remember—don't say too much," England reminds me worriedly. I know he's close by and watching me, so I nod without looking around for him.

" _Why_?!" Mom asks.

"I—I dunno," I lie.

"Then how do you know you're still in danger?"

"Because they're stubborn," I answer resolutely. "They're used to getting what they want, and for whatever reason, they want  _me_.... They're not gonna be happy, definitely...."

"If they found you again," she starts, struggling with the thought, "do you think they'd be mad enough to... to kill you?"

"I don't think so." I frown, sighing, not wanting to think about it. "But they'd hurt me more.... Make sure I don't try to get away again.... Th—they were really mad that I kept fighting them.... That's a big part of why he cut me.... The other part was probably that I—...I dunno, I ' _disrespected'_  him...."

Mom hesitates, just rubbing my arms. "Issa—.... Did they—? Did they... _touch_  you?"

I can't stop a new wave of tears as I nod pitifully. Trying to protect Renae, I put one hand over her ear and hold her head against my abdomen, trying to block the sound of my words. She too young; she doesn't need to know this, at least, not right now. "... Someone raped me," I admit quietly.

Mom sobs again, embracing me tighter than before. "Oh,  _Issa_...."

I return the embrace, crying into her shoulder for a while. "S—something about...  _teaching me a lesson_ ," I say. "Making me  _respect my elders_...."

"Why did you fight them?" she asks. "If you had just— "

I interrupt her. "Believe me, I've told myself that a billion times! I—I just—... I  _really_  wanted to get away...."

"How did you?" Renae pipes up, looking up at me with her big doe eyes.

"Someone helped me."

"One of your mysterious new  _friends_?" Mom asks. She spits out the word accusingly; she doesn't trust them like I do. "I want to meet these people—I want to meet the people who say they can protect you better than I can!"

"Mom, they don't wanna be found," I remind her. "Their privacy is very important to them." I grab her hand again. "Please, Mommy, I  _trust_  them. You don't have to worry."

She sighs, brushing my bangs out of my face. "It's my  _job_  to worry."

"I'm worried, too," Renae says, taking my other hand. "What if they come back?"

"My friends will take care of me," I say without hesitation. I want to tell them that they worked together with the Axis, but that's probably something the countries don't want just anyone to know. "That reminds me— "I remember. "You guys should get out of town. Maybe even out of the country. Go stay with Grandma and Grandpa Pryce in Quebec for a while. I—I don't know what I'd do if they went after you.... They  _shouldn't_.... Their grief is with  _me_ , not  _you_... but I wouldn't put it past them to try to get back at me...."

"What about you?" she asks. "How will we get in touch again?"

"You probably can't," says England's voice from my ear. "Sorry, Issa— It's too dangerous."

I don't like it. I  _really_  don't like it. But, albeit reluctantly, I repeat slowly, "... We can't. Not until we're sure they've given up on me...."

"But how will I know you're safe?"

I shake my head sadly. "I—I guess you'll just have to trust them.... No news is good news, right?"

"What happened during the phone call a few weeks ago?" 

"Oh, um." I look away sheepishly. "I'm really sorry.... Like they said, I went nonverbal. I didn't talk for a whole month. That was their cruel trick to try to get me to say something. I'm really sorry—I hung up on you."

"It's okay, baby. I understand." Mom squeezes me again. "You didn't want to go to school on Tuesday— I  _made_  you go! If I hadn't— "

"No, no, don't do that to yourself," I interrupt, hugging her. "They would've found a way to get to me whether I went to school or not...." Giving a small laugh, "Can you imagine if you'd let me stay home every time I felt a little bit weird? I'd never go!"

We stand there for a while more, just locked in an embrace. Mom moves first, picking up a duffel bag that she dropped when I nearly tackled her. "Here—some clothes and toiletries.... And, here...," she reaches up and removes a long necklace that she wears sometimes—a gold, rectangular locket. It's an heirloom from Dad's side of the family. Dad was wearing it with Mom's and my picture in it when he died. Now there's a picture of Mom, Renae, and me, smiling and happy. I think this was taken last Christmas.

"Thank you," I manage, looping the chain around my neck. It's over my scarf, but I don't want to take that off; Mom would never let me leave if she sees the bruises. "Listen, you should probably go now.... They stalked me for a while before they actually took me, so if they find out that I'm with you...."

"Okay," Mom nods reluctantly. "When should we leave town?"

"As soon as possible. As for how long... I don't know.... I don't know how long this will last...."

"Okay...." She hugs me again, squeezing me again. I don't like how tightly she holds me, but I don't dare move. I don't know when I'll get another hug from her again.... "Where are you going from here?"

"I have a meeting point with my friends. They'll pick me up there." I focus on hugging Renae. "Hey, don't look so sad, kiddo! I'll see you again soon!"

"I'm gonna miss you," she sobs into my shirt.

"I'm gonna miss you too...." I feel myself crying again, and I fight against it. I need to be brave for them.... "I love you guys so much...."

"We love you too, Issa," Mom tells me, kissing my uninjured cheek. "See you soon?"

"Right. Yeah. See you soon...," I return, pulling away. "Bye...."

Very reluctantly, they walk back towards the parking lot. I remain where I am, watching their retreating forms to make sure they won't try to follow me. It makes me sad, but it's for their own good....

I clear my face of tears and start to walk, slinging the duffel bag over my shoulder, and I run my thumb over the locket. I'm supposed to meet the countries about two blocks away from here to throw off any suspicion....

The hair on the back of my neck stands up as I realize someone is walking slightly behind me, but I don't dare turn around. "Excuse me," the stranger asks. He has an accent, but it's not German, which makes me relax slightly. It's Russian, I think. He must be lost.

I glance over my shoulder. The man is wearing sunglasses and a hat. His coat is black, unzipped over a red and white Hawaiian T-shirt. He couldn't look more tourist-y if he tried.

"You are Isabella Pryce, yes?"

"What the hell?" England whispers. "Who's that?"

I can't answer the country, but I turn away from the stranger, not letting him see the surprise and fear mingling into my expression. "No," I lie. "You're mistaken." I really wish I had Bane with me; I've gotten used to his protective nature. 

"I would like to ask you a few questions about the men that took you," he persists, matching my pace.

"Sorry, I—I can't help you," I dismiss, trying to walk faster. "My name's not Isabella."

"What is it, may I ask?"

"It's—um, it doesn't matter," I manage, still not looking at him. "Look, you've got the wrong girl; please leave me alone...."

"My name is Dmitri," he says. "I am looking for creatures like the men who took you. If you see them again, please call me, okay?" He forces a business card into my hand, not taking no for an answer.

"Fine," I answer, just trying to make him go away.

He must be satisfied with my answer because he stops walking with me. I breathe a sigh of relief, not daring to slow my pace.

I look at the card he gave me. The only thing on it is a phone number written hastily in black ink. "That's... creepy," I whisper, loud enough for the mic to hear but soft enough no one else listens.

"Good; he's not following you...," England informs me.

I don't slow down until I make it to the pick-up site outside a Starbucks. I haven't memorized the make and model of Canada's car, so it takes me a minute to locate it, but I get in. "What was  _that_  guy's deal?" Canada asks, reaching for the nondescript card in my hand. "Probably one of those supernatural hunters that almost got America last year. I hate those guys," he whines, crumpling the paper and tossing it in the glove compartment.

England gets in a few minutes later. "Good job handling that situation, Issa," he praises. He still looks uneasy, though. "Do you see what I mean, though? Some humans recognized the Axis; you're lucky it was just that one man...."

I nod, shaking a little bit. I've never liked interacting with strangers, and the last few days made me even more wary of them. But that encounter.... That was just plain disturbing. England mentioned that there are people who would be willing to kill me to get information on the countries; was that man one of them? What would he have done if I hadn't accepted his card?

I don't want to think about it anymore.

The whole ride back, I just run my fingers over the locket and its chain, flicking it open and clasping it shut nervously. If it bothers the nations in the front seat, they don't mention it.

 

When we get back to America's house, the first thing I do is enter the bathroom and take off the clothes I stole from Berlin. I don't want to ever look at them again, so I throw them in the trash can. My mom packed me a skirt and a nice shirt, and I change into that. The skirt is white and pleated, and it falls down to my ankles. The shirt is long-sleeved, a tight green fabric that accentuates my slight curves. She included my eyeliner and foundation. I don't normally wear makeup, but I apply it now, very careful to avoid the painful gash on my cheek. 

I guess I'm trying to dress girlier than I normally do because it's the opposite of what Germany and the others were trying to make me. They cut my hair; they wanted to treat me like a boy, which I'm  _not_. I can be tomboy-ish, but I like to embrace my feminine side every once in a while. The skirt and makeup makes me feel more like myself, I guess.

I take out my hairbrush and try to tame my short locks, which I haven't even attempted since they cut it. Every time I saw a mirror, I looked like a cockatoo by the way my hair stuck up. If I brush it just right, I can almost pretend I have it tied into a ponytail....

"Pretty," England comments when I step out. I smile in acknowledgement, fastening my leaf necklace around my neck again, and I loop the chain of the locket over my head.

I sit on the couch and open it. The picture was taken during Christmas. Mom, Renae, our dog, Oz, and I are posed in front of our Christmas tree. Mom set the camera up on a tri-stand; she had to hurry to get in the picture. I'm surprised Oz was behaving; he's such a little rascal. But, even with all the takes we tried, this was the best of all of us; since there was no one to call his attention to the camera, he was looking up at me. Standing on Renae's lap, he had his tongue out mid-lick on my cheek. The other side holds a picture of my dad. 

"Is that your family?" a voice asks in my ear.

I wasn't paying attention, so I didn't notice him sneak up behind me. My instincts kick in, and I lash out, twisting in my seat to punch with my uninjured hand before I realize who it is.

"Oh, no— Zack, I'm  _so sorry_ ," I apologize, jumping up. My blow hit his chin, sending him reeling back before he tripped and fell on the floor.

"Ow," he manages, rubbing the sore spot.

"I'm so sorry!" I moan again, covering my face in embarrassment.

"It's okay—it's okay, don't worry," he laughs. "Guess I kinda asked for that, didn't I?"

"Killer left hook, dude!" America praises from across the room.

I put my hand over my heart, feeling its rapid pulse. "You  _scared_  me...."

"Sorry...."

"Don't be!" I protest. "I just  _punched_  you!"

"We're gonna be caught up in this loop of 'sorry,' so let's just leave it at that," he reasons, getting up. "Okay?"

"Okay," I repeat, mortified nonetheless. I didn't think I could react that fast without gathering any information. "Y—yes, that's my family," I answer. I take off the locket and hand it to him. I don't want to let go of it, but I figure I shouldn't be so guarded. If I open up and get used to my new surroundings, maybe I'll relax enough to stop hitting people when they surprise me.

He smiles at it. "Your hair's long," he comments. "Actually, you kind of look like Josie." He hands it back, and I put it back on.

"Yeah, Japan cut my hair," I grumble, still annoyed with it. I notice something. "Oh, you changed clothes."

Zack is wearing a plain gray T shirt under a dark blue plaid over-shirt with jeans and tennis shoes. "So did you," he points out.

"I went to see my family."

"Me too." He plops on the couch next to me, looking a little bit gloomy. "We got there before Mom and Dad freaked out and called the cops, so that's good. But... I'm... I'm really... what's a word for a mixture of sad and mad?"

"Smad!" America interjects, trying to lighten the clouds that were starting to form.

We both laugh. "Smad. Right. I'm very smad," he continues. Sobering, "Seriously, though, I'm... I'm pissed off, and I'm terrified and confused, and I'm really, really sad...."

"I understand," I nod. "...Like, this is a thing that you read about in the news.... It's not supposed to actually happen, y'know?"

"Right. That's exactly it," he confirms. His frown deepens, and he looks away a little. "Josie was beside herself.... She was  _pissed._ Yeah, she barely let us leave...." He runs a thumb under his eye, turning away a little bit more. "We've never been apart, y'know?"

"I know," I assure him. "It's the same with me and my little sister. Renae."

"How old is she?"

"Nine," I answer, rubbing the locket. "She's my baby sister. If she was taken instead of me, I wouldn't have slept until I knew she was safe."

He raises a corner of his mouth. "I'm gonna use that against her the next time she owes me a favor."

"Oh, yeah," I joke. "What a great excuse! 'Sorry, teacher, I can't do this assignment because I was kidnapped.'"

"Yeah, why couldn't this have happened around midterms?" he smiles. "I bet they would've given me an A whether I took the test or not."

"That makes me feel better about missing a whole week of school," I grin.

A rap at the door makes me jump. Bane howls excitedly. "It's just France," Canada assures me when he notices my expression. I relax a little bit, but I'm still wary. I haven't gotten used to the idea of his company yet.

But here he comes. Today he's wearing tan pants with the same black boots. His blue coat covers his white silk shirt. When we make eye contact, he doesn't frown at me like he did yesterday, but he's not exactly excited at my presence, either.

"Once everyone gets here, we're going to set up a video conference," England explains to me after exchanging a couple of insults with France. "You two should probably stay upstairs for that."

"Don't have to tell  _me_  twice," I answer. If I never see or hear any of them again, it'll be too soon.

"They really freak you out, huh?" Zack notices.

I want to scowl at him, but he's not trying to make fun of me. He doesn't deserve that. Nevertheless, my answer is scathing. "Well, they  _did_  kidnap me, beat me up, and make my life a living hell, so,  _yeah,_ I'm not exactly thrilled to see them again."

He winces a little. "I didn't think of it that way. Sorry."

"Don't worry about it," I dismiss, but I still avoid eye contact with him. I know he didn't mean to, but he still rubbed me the wrong way.

Over the course of about a half-hour, Russia, China, and Jia Li show up. Ever the obedient children, we file up the stairs to let the countries do their work. I'm glad Bane follows us. 

We settle in the gaming room at the top of the stairs. While there's still a TV and a bunch of video game consoles, there's also a pinball machine, a ping pong table, and a foosball table.

"Sweet," Zack approves, and he goes and rolls a little white ball into the foosball field. "I call blue team!"

I join him and twist the red handles on the other side from him. Our game lasts for about ten minutes, and I barely win; it's only because I spin the handles so the ball spirals out of control into his goals.

I'm surprised how comfortable I am with Zack. It usually takes a long time for me to warm up to people, but we exchange banter like we've known each other for years. Like, I'm friends with Jia Li, and I would talk to her if I could, but I can't. We can only enjoy each other's company in silence. Maybe that's why I appreciate Zack and his conversation.

He offers to play again. It's more of a demand, actually; he thinks spinning the handles like that is cheating. But I deny; I don't like the game all that much.

I exit the room to go to the bathroom. I remember where it is, surprisingly; I wasn't in much of a "remembering" mood this morning when I fled from the bedroom.

On my way back to the room, I freeze. They're arguing downstairs. Loudly.

The door is open, so when Zack notices how stuck I seem, he comes to investigate. "That doesn't sound good," he comments grimly.

"...No, it doesn't," I answer after finding my voice.

Zack narrows his eyes at the stairs. Before I know it, he's swiftly creeping down, not making a sound.

"Zack!" I protest. When he doesn't respond, I curse. Jia Li has curiously made her way to me, looking at me with concern and apprehension. I hold up my hand, motioning for her to stay. After a moment of hesitation, I tiptoe down the stairs. Bane tilts his head and starts to follow, but I hold out my hands and whisper for him to stay. I think the countries would notice a 150-200 pound dog going down the stairs. "Good boy," I tell him quietly when he doesn't follow me. 

He's standing like a statue in the front hall, looking inquisitively towards the living room where the nations are arguing. "Zack!" I hiss again. "What are you doing?!"

He glances at me. "I never got a good look at the people who took me," he explains in a whisper. Listening to Germany's booming voice, he faces me again. "Is that him?"

I nod, trembling. That voice haunts me. Every time I mess up, I can just imagine him yelling at me. He was the omnipresent demon that followed me, making sure I never set a toe out of line.

The front hall splits into three mini-corridors. The middle one leads to the living room, and the one on the right goes to the kitchen. I haven't been to the left yet. Zack starts moving towards the right. I think he's still trying to catch a glimpse of his would-be abductors.

As stupid as it is, I tail him. He's going to get in trouble! If Germany spots him—

I grab his arm as he pauses by the corner. "They're talking about you," he tells me quietly. "I heard them say your name."

"Yeah, I bet— I'm the one that got away. Come on, they're going to see you!" I plead, tugging on his sleeve.

"No, they're not," he dismisses. "Here— "He pulls out his phone and opens his camera, putting it on selfie-mode. Carefully, he holds the lens out past the corner, showing the reflection of the countries' backs and Germany's snarling face on the TV.

Upon seeing him, I dig my fingernails into Zack's arm, breath catching.

"That's him?" he asks.

I nod shakily. "That's him."

I'm too frightened to move or to beg Zack to return upstairs with me. I'm frozen, staring at the face of the dangerous man. "Do you know what they're talking about?" he whispers. When I manage to shake my head, he frowns. "Something you did really pissed him off."

Suddenly, I hear a different name, and I gasp. "Josh!"

"Josh?"

"H—he's England's lookalike," I explain. "He was the only other one who could speak English, so we kind of bonded. I—I wanted to help him escape, but—...." I shake my head, biting my lip, and I just watch the camera.

Germany's words are getting louder and angrier, and I hear him say "Joshua" more than once. The nations say it, too. Suddenly, Germany exits the frame for a second. When he returns, he yanks someone else with him, and I let out a strangled whimper.

 _Josh_.

He looks  _terrible_. I've only been gone for a week! I  _saw_  him before I left, and he was  _fine_! Now, shallow cuts pepper his forehead, and he looks ghoulishly pale except for some bruises on his cheekbone. Germany holds his head up by a fistful of his greasy blond hair, and he winces behind a length of duct tape pressed against his lips.

I nearly collapse. From over the pounding of blood in my ears, I hear Zack ask, "Is that Josh?"

Without thinking it through, I shove past Zack into the kitchen, rushing up behind the nations into the living room. "Josh!  _Josh!_ "

He opens his eyes at the sound of my voice, and I see a sad yet relieved look flash through his expression. Then, he falls from the frame as Germany grabs his screen to get a better look at me. "Let him go!" I scream at him, eyes tearing up.

"Issa, what are you doing here?!" England gasps sternly.

"On it," Canada answers him quietly, and he goes and grabs my around my waist.

"No!" I manage, fighting his grip. "Let him go! You sick bastard,  _let him go! Josh!_ "

"Shh, Issa," Canada soothes me, still dragging me kicking and screaming up the stairs. "Shh, it's okay...."

"It's  _not_  okay!" I howl at him, tears falling now. "He  _hurt_  him! Josh wasn't like that when I left— Germany is punishing  _him_  for my escape!"

He sits me on the couch in the game room. "Shh, shh," he continues, hugging me. Bane sits at my feet and puts his head on my knees. 

"It's my fault," I sob into his shirt. " _It's my fault_."

"No, it's not," he comforts.

"Yes, it  _is_!" I insist. "Josh was willing to do  _anything_  they said if it meant they wouldn't hurt him! But the only thing they wanted was  _me_!" Canada can't deny that, so the only thing he does is stroke my hair.

From behind me, Zack appears. "I'm so sorry—she didn't even  _want_  to go downstairs—she was only following  _me_ —if I hadn't— "

"We can play the blame game later," Canada interrupts gently. "Right now, we just want to keep the peace for as long as possible."

"But they're not cooperating, are they?" Zack asks somberly.

Canada sighs. "We're negotiating when we can," he evades. Giving my shoulders another squeeze, he releases me and stands up. "I have to go downstairs again.  _Please_ , you guys.  _Stay here_."

I hear Zack quietly consent, and I give a single nod, still weeping. Canada exits.

Zack sits next to me, and he puts an arm around my shoulders. I can tell he wants to say something reassuring, but he doesn't. "I  _knew_  I wasn't done with them yet," I manage bitterly, leaning into his embrace. "I  _knew_  it."

 

After about an hour, Canada pokes his head in the door. "Issa, would you mind coming down here?"

"Uh. Sure." I get up and follow him down the stairs, leaving Zack and Jia Li here. Bane, as usual, follows me.

In the living room, the TV is black. Germany's not there anymore. The other nations are talking worriedly to each other, but they all stop when I enter the room. They must have been talking about me. I don't even understand them; if they had just kept talking, I wouldn't have known.

"Issa," England starts, frowning, "do you know your blood type?"

"My blood type?" That sure came out of the blue. "Uh, no." His frown deepens, and he says something else to the countries. "Why?"

"We would like to run some tests," he tells me. But that didn't answer my question.

"Gimme your arm," America says, walking towards me with a needle and a little bag to catch the blood in.

I back away defensively. " _Why?"_

"Please, Issa?" Canada inputs, putting his hand on my shoulder.

"What's going on?" I demand. "Why are you acting all weird? What does my  _blood_  have to do with  _anything_?"

"Germany...." England sighs. "Germany said something...  _odd_. He said you were dangerous in ways we can only imagine."

"Oh,  _please_ ," I snap. "If I were so  _dangerous_ , they wouldn't have been able to hurt me like they did!"

"Please, Issa. Just let us test it."

They're scaring me. I don't like this. "I don't want you to," I protest. I'm tired of seeing my own blood. I want it to stay in my body, where it  _belongs_.

"Don't make us hold you down," America warns, looking uncharacteristically no-nonsense.

"I'm not  _making_  you do  _anything_!" I want to leave, but a grip on my shoulder keeps me from moving away. "Canada, you had  _better_ get your hands off of me," I snarl.

"Issa, please— "he starts, but I cut him off, shaking myself loose and backing away.

"I'm tired of being everyone's damn  _science experiment_!"

"We know!" Canada soothes. "Please, Issa, this is the  _last_  time, I  _promise_.  _Trust_  us."

I grit my teeth and curse under my breath, but I stalk up to America and yank up my sleeve, giving him access to my vein. He has me sit at the kitchen table, and I can't watch as I feel it pierce my skin. Canada is trying to be nice, trying to take my free hand, but I pull it away, glaring at my knees. Finally, America takes the needle out.

"Would someone like to tell me what the hell is going on?" I ask testily.

"We won't know for sure until we analyze it," England explains. "...But we think... we think your blood is a key ingredient in making an extremely deadly bomb."

I'm rendered speechless for a second. "A  _bomb_. A  _bomb_  made of  _blood_. Are you  _kidding_  me?!"

"Believe me—I wish I were," he answers seriously.

I curse again and stand up, stomping away a few feet into the living room. Canada tries to touch my shoulder, but I jerk away. "Are you okay?" he asks gently.

"Just flipping  _great_!" I shout back. "My blood  _explodes_. Why the hell  _not_?! Nothing  _else_  makes sense, so why the hell should  _this?!_ " I lash out, kicking the coffee table, which  _hurts_ , and I let out another loud swear.

" _Language_ , Isabella!" England scolds me strictly. Softening a bit, "I know you're angry, but—."

"I have  _every right_  to be pissed off!" I fling back, whirling around to glare at him. "Don't you  _dare_  yell at me for being angry!"

"I won't," he assures me. "How about you sit and try to calm down?"

"Best idea you've had all night," I growl, trudging away.

"I meant on the  _couch_ ," he clarifies when he realizes I'm about to leave the room. "Where we can keep track of you."

"I want to be  _alone_ ," I snarl.

"Isabella, don't you dare storm off like that," he orders, fed up with me.

"What are you gonna do about it?!" I yell, voice cracking as my throat gets hoarse. " _Kidnap_  me?  _Strangle_  me? Cut open my damn  _face_?!"

He sputters angrily, not used to such attitude. It must occur to him that he has no power over me unless he stoops to Germany's level, and I would  _never_  forgive him for that.

"Leave her alone, Arthur," Canada suggests gently. "She's been through enough."

With Canada's blessing, I flee the room, going back up the stairs. Zack is hovering on the bottom step, eavesdropping. He surprised me; he looks at me with pity. "Nosy little sucker, aren't you?" I snap as I pass him.

"Issa, I'm so sorry," he tries.

"Save it," I growl, not bothering to turn to him.

I make it to the room I woke up in. I'm not surprised to find a fluffy shadow at my heels. I allow Bane access, and then I close the door. As soon as it clicks shut, I finally burst into furious tears, sinking against the barrier. Clutching at my locket, I don't bother trying to muffle my sobs. The noise of my despair fills the silence of the empty room. Bane lies at my feet, not trying to lick me, for once. He's just pressed against my legs, looking up at me through sad brown eyes.

I don't want the door closed; it makes me feel like I'm locked in here. But I'd rather be trapped in here than be forced to interact with my new captors. I know they're just trying to protect me, but, no matter how I look at it, I'm still a prisoner. I'm still a hostage. I can't go home; I can't leave here. Just because I have the freedom to roam the house doesn't mean I have the freedom to go. I'm  _trapped_.

I just want things to be  _normal_. I want my boring, mundane life back. I want to go back to the time where my biggest problem was a test I hadn't studied for. I want for the only thing that causes a panic attack is a room full of people looking at me.

But I  _can't_. My life won't  _ever_  be the same again. When this is over— _if_  this is ever over—I don't see how I can recover. I've been inches from death. I've been raped—  _defiled_. I'm never going to look like I did; I'll have this scar for the rest of my life—a cruel reminder of the things I've endured in the past few days.

 

I've moved away from the door, leaning against the side of the bed and holding a pillow to my chest, mechanically stroking Bane as he sits next to me. About an hour passes before someone knocks gently. When I don't reply, it creaks open a little bit. "Issa?" Canada asks, peeking in. I don't turn, but he must notice me curled up on the floor. "It's time for dinner," he offers.

"Not hungry," I say simply. It's a lie. But I'm still too upset to eat.

"You need to eat," he insists. "It's not healthy."

Tears prick at my eyes again. "You guys should kill me."

He's taken aback. "Issa, why would you say something like that?" he asks, kneeling next to me, concerned.

"Think about it. If I'm dead, I'm not dangerous anymore," I reason. "No one could use me."

"We're not going to kill you," he says firmly, reaching out to touch my shoulder. I lean away, and he pulls his hand back, trying to respect my personal space.

Tears fall again. "This world is so awful; there's so much pain and destruction. I don't want to be a part of it. I  _want_  you to kill me."

He doesn't say anything for a minute. Shifting to a more comfortable position, he asks, "Why do you want to die?"

"I'm  _tired_ ," I sob, still not looking at him. "This is never going to go away—and if I'm so dangerous, I'm a liability to keep around. It's the best solution for everyone."

"Not your family," he points out.

I sigh, acknowledging that. Yeah, they'd be really sad, but they'd eventually heal. "I'd rather have them be sad than dead."

"No one's going to use you," he tries.

"You don't know that...."

"...You're right; I can't predict the future," he says. "But we're going to do our best to keep them away from you."

I really appreciate his honesty. England or America would have given me the standard, 'Everything's gonna be okay' spiel. But, still: "What if your best isn't good enough? What if they get me again and take my blood—what if they use it to kill people? What if—."

Canada stops me, scooting a little bit closer. "You're going to drive yourself crazy with all of those 'what ifs.'" Gently patting my shoulder, "They don't have you now—that's what matters. And we're going to keep it that way, all right?"

I don't respond. He must take it as a good sign that I don't shake him away, so he rubs circles into my shoulder. We sit like that for a while before he insists, "Come on; you need to eat."

My spark has died; I'm too tired to fight anymore. Besides, I am a little bit hungry.

America has ordered Pizza Hut. I take a slice from the box on top, not really caring what kind it is. A little disgusted to see olives, I take a napkin and plop at the table, picking off the unholy vegetable.

England is sitting there. I can't make myself look at him. We had a big argument that wasn't resolved, so there's some tension between us. Plus, I still can't stand to look at him; especially not now, not after I've seen Josh's current state.

He initiates conversation. "How are you doing?"

"Peachy keen," I mumble in between a bite of the pizza. I pull off a piece of pepperoni and feed it to my faithful companion, who then rests his chin on my knees, begging silently for more. 

I can tell he doesn't appreciate my attitude, but he doesn't say anything about it. "I'm sorry for being so cross with you; I was under a lot of stress, and I shouldn't have lashed out."

"Me, too," I answer half-heartedly. It's a bad excuse for an apology, but I've got no energy to make a better one. Plus, I don't really forgive him, and I'm not sorry; he was unreasonable earlier. I think my behavior is perfectly justified, considering everything that's happened, and I didn't like how controlling he was.

I was ignoring the TV playing in the living room, but something makes me freeze—I hear my name.

"It's been one and a half months since Isabella Pryce was kidnapped at gunpoint from Washington DC High School," the news anchor announces. I twist in my seat to watch. "The suspects still remain at large, and the whereabouts and condition of Pryce remain unknown." The show clips to a fuzzy video, and the anchor voices over it. "At this point, the police are giving up their investigation, and Isabella is to be assumed dead." 

I'm not paying attention to his words—I'm too focused on the footage that plays in the background.

I see  _myself_ , surrounded by three equally blurry figures. The camera was above us; by the time we had moved into its range of sight, they had already made me take my hair down, and I was just beginning to panic. Sitting there numbly, I watch Germany push me against the wall and point his gun at me. A few seconds pass before he inexplicably jumps back—I bit him, which the camera can't see—and then I hit him with my backpack and run, but Japan tackles me and holds his knife against my throat. He makes me stand, and Germany pushes me against the wall again to tie my hands behind my back. The camera can't see why we all suddenly look in the same direction, but I know that it's because of the security guard that interrupted us. Germany makes me stand close to him, holding the pistol against my head, and the four of us slowly back out of the frame.

The news anchor lists off numbers to call if anyone sees me or any of my captors, and then he starts on a different story, but I stop listening. Slowly turning back around in my seat, I realize that I really don't feel like eating anymore.

"...Issa?" England asks, noting how stiffly I sit and how I can't seem to stop trembling.

I glance up at him, but I look down quickly. Running my hand hastily under my eyes, "...Wow. It's scary to see it from that angle, too." I shake my head, still refusing to look up. "You can't even hear anything in that video. Can't hear him yelling at me... can't hear me s—screaming and—and begging for help...."

"It's over now," England reminds me gently.

"But it still happened," I answer sadly, making a mess by ripping the remainder of my pizza into chunks. "I—I... I don't see how I could ever go back there.... I'm never going to feel safe in that school again...."

He's quiet for a minute. Then, he gets up and sits down next to me, putting his hand over mine. "I keep having to remind myself how young you are," he admits. "The way you talk and act seem very... mature. This all seems like too much for anyone to handle, much less a young teenager."

I can't think of a response, but my anger has completely subsided. To show that there are no hard feelings between us, I rest my head on England's shoulder.

He swats my hands as I continue to tear my food into shreds. "Eat it," he insists. I roll my eyes, but I make a point of popping a piece into my mouth. When he's not looking, I slip pieces under the table for Bane to lick out of my hand.

When I finish eating the deconstructed slice of pizza, I move to the couch. Zack is sitting a little bit away from me. "Hi," he greets, seeming nervous. "...Are you mad at me?"

"No," I answer. "I'm sorry for snapping at you; I was just angry—I shouldn't have taken it out on you."

"Okay, good," he responds, looking relieved. "I was afraid I drove off the only other person my age." He moves a little bit closer. "But, yeah, exploding blood. That must be freaky."

I shrug. "This is the first I've heard about it, so I dunno. They should've just followed me around with a bucket; Germany, especially, was always hitting me, making me bleed. That's a lot of blood they wasted, if all that's true."

"Yikes," he winces sympathetically. "He really kept beating you like that?"

"If I pissed him off—which wasn't very hard, by the way—and if no one else was there to stop him, yeah, he'd hit me. Or he'd yank on my hair, which must have been a lot easier before they cut it. His favorite was probably slamming me into the wall and pinning me there by my neck," I admit bitterly. "On the first day, he almost broke my nose. Everyone else was just there, trying to keep him from accidentally murdering me." I rub one of Bane's ears, trying not to cry again.

"And it still hurts?"

I sigh. "Sometimes." 

He grimaces, turning a little bit closer to me. "...That was almost me, wasn't it?" he notices.

"Don't do that to yourself," I scold.

Zack looks a little bit nervous as he continues, a blush darkening his cheeks. "I—I... I never really... thanked you... for saving me."

"It's okay," I dismiss. "Don't worry about it."

He looks embarrassed, but he tries to elaborate. "No, I—I wanted to... to  _thank_  you...."

I still don't get it. Frowning, "You just did, didn't you?"

He huffs, a little exasperated. "N—no, uh. Um," he shifts a little closer to me. "I wanted to— to thank you like  _this_ — "

Before I can fully comprehend what's happening, Zack leans into my personal space to press his mouth against mine.

I'm shocked, but my body acts on instinct. Since my dominant hand is still injured, I slam my wrist into the side of his head. He jerks to the left, but I don't stop—using his momentum, I shove him off the side of the couch. I jump up, and I plant my foot firmly into his stomach.

I realize what just happened, and I scramble backwards, covering my mouth. Bane jumps up and starts barking, seeming agitated by the new development. 

"Ow!" Zack protests, looking angry when he sits up. "What was  _that_  for?!"

I'm shaking uncontrollably, and it takes me a while to find my voice. "Wh—wh—why did you d—do that?!"

He gets up, looking sheepish, but still annoyed. "I don't know! I just thought— "he stops suddenly. "Oh, _no_ , you're  _crying_ —I'm so  _sorry_ —was it really that bad?!"

He starts forward, trying to reconcile for his mistake, but I stumble away until my back hits the wall. "Don't touch me— _don't touch me_!"

The nations, all sitting in the kitchen, talking in hushed voices to each other, notice that we're yelling at each other. "What happened?" Canada asks, ever the peacekeeper. "Sit, Bane," as the hound weaves through everyone's legs, still howling. 

"I—I kissed her," Zack admits, looking mortified. "She hit me and started crying—I didn't mean— ."

"You  _what_?" England butts in, moving closer. "Zack, you—you  _do_ know what happened to her, don't you?"

"What happened?" he parrots. "Besides being kidnapped?" He pales. "Wait, you don't mean— "He turns to me again, holding up his hands. "Issa, I had  _no idea_ — Why didn't you  _tell_ me?!"

"It's not exactly an ice-breaker!" I answer, trying fruitlessly to control my tears. "Can you  _imagine_ — 'Hi, nice to meet you; a month ago someone I  _barely know_  decided to  _drug_  me up and  _tie_  me down and  _bone_  me  _without_  my consent  _so hard_  that I can  _barely walk_!'"

"I'm so sorry," he repeats genuinely. "I'm  _so sorry_."

I take a deep breath. "It's—it's okay—you didn't know," I manage. I'm not mad at him, anyway; I'm mad at Hughes.

"I'm so sorry—are you gonna be okay?" Zack asks. He looks like he wants to come to me to comfort me, but he's afraid to.

I nod shakily. "I—I just—I just need some air." Without making eye contact with anyone, I scamper down the hall and out the front door before anyone can stop me. I close the door in Bane's face, and I feel a pang of guilt. Bane just wants to comfort me, and he probably doesn't understand why I locked him in.

I don't go far; I sit down on the bottom step of the porch, wrapping my arms around myself and curling down so my face presses into the fabric of my long skirt. The biting cold only makes my trembling worse. My tears are warm, but as soon as they drip off my face, their temperature drops rapidly, already chilled by the time they splash onto the back of my hand. It's night; the street lamps are already on down the street from here.

They leave me alone for a few minutes before I hear steps behind me. When I look, it's England. Josh's face makes me sad, but I don't turn away. "Come on, love," he says gently, offering me his hand. "Let's go for a ride."

I shakily nod, letting him help me up. He walks me to his station wagon and opens the door for me, and then he gets behind the wheel. The seats are wrong; the wheel is on the wrong side. But I'm too distraught to make fun of his car.

"Where are we going?" I ask after a while.

"Just around. We can go back whenever you're ready," he replies kindly. The next few minutes pass in silence before he requests, "Tell me how you're feeling."

I sigh, my breath catching in a sob. "It's not Zack's fault—I didn't want him to know; he would've just kept asking questions.... It's just... I dunno... scary? The only other time someone kissed me was when—... y'know, when it happened...." I give a small, bitter laugh. "That's really gonna throw a wrench in my future love life, huh? Can't kiss each other without me flipping out and hitting them...."

He nods, understanding. "Keep in mind, though— you've got your whole life ahead of you. Eventually, this will heal. I know it hurts now, both physically and emotionally, but you're going to get better in time. And no one's rushing you— you can take as long as you need to feel better."

I nod, taking off my glasses to clean them on the edge of my shirt. "It's just.... So many things are going to be different now.... I mean, I know that's to be expected after something like this, but still.... I'm so scared all the time, now. I'm  _scared_ , and I'm  _angry_ , and I'm  _confused_...." I shake my head, holding my glasses instead of putting them back on. "I've never wanted to hurt someone so badly. If he didn't drug me... I would've  _killed_  him."

"How would you do it?"

That's kind of weird; normally, guardians don't encourage these kinds of violent thoughts. "I would've strangled him." I don't even hesitate with that answer.

"Any special reason?" he asks. "Is it because you were almost strangled?"

"No," I shake my head, and I grit my teeth, curling my fingers into a tight, trembling fist around my seat belt. "I want to see the light leave his eyes. I want to see him  _panic_. Th—that's what  _he_  did to  _me_. I don't know what he used on me, but he even  _said_  that he wanted me to be awake for it. He kept telling me to open my eyes—he wanted to  _see_  how terrified I was. I just want to return the favor."

"Good," England responds. I just stare at him for a minute.  _Good_? I scared  _myself_  with my intensity! How is that  _good_?! "Anger is part of the grieving process. It's healthy to feel this way—in moderation, of course. Anger is  _expected_. Just don't let it control you, okay? Eventually, you'll have to move on. Now, I'm not saying you have to forgive him. Just don't let it consume you."

"Okay," I agree, relaxing my hands. "What else should I be feeling?"

"Well, the stages of grief are denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. What do you think you've gone through?"

"Anger, definitely," I answer. "I'm probably still in that. And in depression. It'll probably be a while before I can let go of those.... I tried to bargain with him... and I tried to pretend it wasn't happening.... But at the end of the day, there's no way around it. No one can un-rape me... so I might as well just accept it...." I wipe my nose on my sleeve, putting my glasses back on my face. "Maybe it'll be easier to deny once it stops being so sore."

"Right. No matter what, this experience is going to define you in some way. But it's up to you to decide whether you use this tragedy to lift you up or let it drag you down." He glances at me and smiles. "And if— "

In the split-second England looks away from the road, there's a horribly loud screeching noise. Some force—a car that was driving without its lights on—rams into the side of his vehicle. It T-bones us, the front of it hitting the back doors on England's side. The other car's momentum flips England's little station wagon like it's nothing. The car rolls, sending us past the left lane and off the road.

Time stops inside the car. I see England's window splinter and break, sending shards of glass flying toward him. Luckily, he was turned towards me, so it doesn't slice up his face. He flinches, one hand trying to cover his head, the other reaching out to grab me. My head slams into my own window, and I feel the glass shatter underneath my skull. I black out for a few seconds.

When I come to, I'm hanging limply upside down, held in place by my taut seat belt. I can't see well—my glasses are still on my face, but they're stuck on my forehead. My head throbs in pain, and I can't move. My mouth tastes rusty and metallic, and I feel blood drip up my face, going up my nose and into my eyes before it mingles with my hair and drips onto the glass-covered roof of the car.

"England," I groan, my voice hardly registering over the ringing in my ears. "E—England?"

Slowly and very painfully, I manage to turn my head. He's dangling from his own seat belt, but his eyes are closed. Is—...is he... dead? No—a car crash can't kill a nation.... Can it?

Someone—or maybe more than one person; I can't tell—manages to open my door. I can't understand them—the ringing in my ears is too loud. 

Someone supports my body while someone else severs my seat belt, letting me fall from my restraint. I whimper in pain as the person under me catches me before I hit the ground. Carefully, they carry me a few feet away from the wreck, lying me on my back. It hurts to breathe—are my ribs broken?

Someone shines a light in my eyes, trying to talk to me. They wave it back and forth, but I can't make my eyes follow it. I think I have a concussion. With the way my head hit the window, I'm not surprised.

They shift me so I'm lying on a hard surface, and they clip something around my neck—a brace, I think. Then, they must lift me up—the thing I'm lying on is suddenly a little bit unstable. I blink rapidly. The excruciating pain makes it hard to think. "Eng—Arthur," I manage, just barely remembering not to use his country name. "Where's Arthur?" I weakly lift my hand, trying to grab someone's attention. "Where's Arthur?" Someone takes my hand and makes me lie still, looping some sort of belt around me so I don't move and hurt myself more.

The intensity of the ringing fades a little bit, and I'm set down in a lit area. I still can't understand the voices. They're not speaking English. Suddenly, something occurs to me—I never heard the ambulance sirens. These people are not EMTs. Where am I? Who are these people?!

A face comes into focus. They removed my glasses, so he must be leaning very close to me in order for me to see him clearly. I manage a shaky gasp, tears quickly forming and spilling down my cheeks. "No— "I whimper. "No—no, no, no, no,  _no_ — "

"Hello, Miss Pryce," General Victor Hughes greets me, grinning smugly. 


	7. Breathless

I can't think—I can't move. It hurts too much. I'm vaguely aware of the tears trickling down my face—or is that blood? I don't know. Where am I hurt? Through the fuzz of agony in my head, I'm aware of one thing—I can't breathe.

No, I'm definitely crying, I realize after I'm forced to stare at the face of my rapist. I'm aware of myself talking— "No," I repeat, over and over and over, "no, no,  _no_ — "

"Shh," he croons, putting a finger over my lips. "Don't speak; you'll hurt yourself more."

I'm hyperventilating— or, rather, I might be, if I were able to take full breaths. I can't expand my chest—it hurts too much. The vehicle we're in starts and drives off, but the lights in the back don't turn off.

"I can't breathe," I murmur, feeling overwhelmed with panic and agony and fatigue, "I can't breathe— _I can't breathe_ — ."

"You probably punctured your lung," says someone else. I don't know who—I don't  _care_  who. Someone, please, just get Hughes away from me! The stranger gently feels my chest, fingers traveling. I don't have time to protest his touch—as soon as he traces the right side of my rib cage, I yelp. Moving his hand away, he lifts me so I'm in a sitting position, bracing my back against something soft. I must be on some sort of gurney. "Is that better?"

It helps, at least a little bit. The upright position allows air to flow better than it did when I was laying down. "Wh—where's Arthur?" I plead, still gasping. "Is he okay? Please—where is he?"

"He's fine," Hughes dismisses, taking my hand.

" _Don't touch me_!" I manage to howl, thrashing against my restraint. The pain in my head and chest and shoulder is unbearable, and I have to release a groan, letting my distress be known to my abductors. "Unh— let me go—get away from me— Please,  _don't touch me_!"

The different guy speaks to Hughes in German. He isn't happy about it, but he releases me. Turning to me, the guy presses my shoulders into the cot, trying to still me. "Don't move, please."

I cry out when he touches my left shoulder. The guy makes a "tsk" sound. "Dislocated," he diagnoses. His hands shift me so I'm on my right side, and he gives my arm a squeeze before warning me, "This is going to hurt." And he presses down hard against my shoulder.

Agony explodes through my body. I scream as loud as I can, tears waterfalling down my face, mingling with blood gushing from an abrasion along my hairline. There's a sickening  _pop!_  as my arm goes back in its socket, which relieves a little bit of the pain. Panting, I don't fight as the guy positions me on my back again, starting to examine me.

He moves down towards my feet. My long white skirt is tattered and bloody—my legs must be cut somewhere. I'm not surprised; there was a lot of broken glass.

He pulls my skirt up, exposing my legs, and I panic. " _DON'T!"_  I screech desperately, kicking at him.

"Relax," he scolds, holding me down. There's several large shards embedded in my right thigh. He must decide that he'll deal with that later because he bunches up the fabric and ties it back so I might as well be wearing a mini-skirt.

I look past him. On the other side of the van, there's a blurry unconscious form on a different gurney. I'm barely able to make out the blond of his hair. " _England!_ " I scream. "England, wake up!  _Please_ , England—you  _promised_!" 

I think I hear him moan and stir. Before he can do much, Hughes gets orders from the driver—Germany, probably. Hughes makes his way over to the injured nation, and, without any hesitation, he stabs him in the neck. 

I scream. A strange gurgling sound comes out of England's mouth, and he claws feebly at the wound.  "There," Hughes says with satisfaction. "That should hold him for awhile." 

" _How could you do that_?!" I screech at him. " _ENGLAND!"_

"You're stressing her!" the other man scolds. 

"Let me go," I beg, trying to look the stranger in the eyes. " _Let me go_."

He shushes me, shifting my hair around so he can see the gash on my forehead. "Tell me your name?" he requests, trying to get me to follow his finger with my eyes.

"Is—Isabella Pr—Pryce," I stammer obediently. I try to watch his hand, but my vision blurs instead. "Please—  _please_ —. "

"What month is it?"

"Um—March— or maybe April by now, I— I haven't been keeping track. Please, you don't understand— _you_   _have to let me go_ —. "

"You have a concussion," he confirms, "but you're coherent enough that we can put you to sleep without permanent damage." He turns around to look for something.

" _No_!" I exclaim, trying to get away. "No, don't put me to sleep!"

"You're going to go into shock if we don't," he reasons, filling a syringe with a clear liquid.

"No!  _No_!" I yell, struggling against the restraint. "No drugs—Stop!  _Stop!"_

"Shh," he prompts, grabbing my arm.

The needle pierces into my flesh, and I scream again. " _NO!_ Get  _away_  from me!  _ENGLAND_!" The medicine chills through my arm, spreading. It actually kicks in faster than anything else they've forced upon me. In mere seconds, everything fades away.

 

 

I float in and out of consciousness, aware of very little except excruciating pain. Some events stick with me, though, leaving me with bits and pieces. Cold. Hospital smell—antiseptic. People touching me. Pain. Bright lights. Voices. Ouch, needle. Hughes? I thought they fired him...? Too tired to be scared.... More lights. More people touching me. Just leave me alone; I wanna sleep. Pain. Voices I recognize —the countries. Not the nice ones. 

Eventually, I surface, and it's clear I'm not going to sleep for a while. While I'm conscious, I'm not sure if I'm fully awake. It still hurts, of course, but it's more like a dull pain. I must be on some heavy-duty painkillers.

Blinking slowly, I realize that there's a soldier posted at my side. He doesn't notice me. I wonder if he's guarding me to protect me or if he's supposed to keep me from escaping.

The bed I'm in is more like a recliner. It makes sure I'm propped up enough to breathe. Still, something tickles my nose—some sort of oxygen mask. It helps; I realize I can't get a full breath on my own.

They've wrapped my arm and shoulder with a long bandage. Looking down more, I realize that they've undressed me, put me in a hospital gown. I know that should spark fear in me, but I can't make myself care. They've stuck several wires to my chest, and they lead to some monitor by the side of my bed that beeps slowly. There's also something clipped loosely around my left index finger. I'm under a scratchy beige blanket. Twitching my fingers, I confirm that my fractured hand is still wrapped up.

I can't remember why, but I know I need to try to get up. I think I need to leave. Why, though? It's so warm, and I'm so sleepy. I try to lift up my hands, but each one is chained to a side of the bed. Wiggling a little bit, I realize there's some sort of belt around my waist, and my feet are tied, too.

Someone says something—the soldier. I can't see. I don't have my glasses. So, the soldier is just that to me—just some sort of faceless stranger, a blurry antagonist. I don't know who he is; all I know is that he's not here to help me.

Eventually, someone else walks up to me. "Hello," he says with an accent. It's not German, though.... Spanish, maybe? Italian? I can't tell.

"Where 'm I?" I slur.

"Do you remember what happened?"

"C—car crash," I manage. Now that I'm aware of the handcuffs, they bother me.

"Are there any blanks in your memory?"

I want to shake my head, but it hurts. "No," I settle instead. "Where am I?"

"You're in an infirmary in Venice," he informs me.

"V—Venice...?" I wasn't expecting that. Why am I in Italy instead of Germany? It hits me—the countries  _expect_  them to take me to Berlin; they'll look for me  _there_ , but that's not where I am. They won't find me. A strangled sob escapes me, my eyes welling with tears.

Ignoring my emotion, he continues. "You have been hurt badly. Your injuries include a concussion, a broken rib, a punctured lung, a dislocated shoulder, several abrasions, and a lot of internal bleeding. Your hand and face were already injured prior to the crash." He read all that from a clipboard at the base of my bed. "You have been unconscious for about eighteen hours now, and we have you on a low dose of morphine."

"Wh—where's Eng—Arthur?" I ask. "Arthur Kirkland—where is he?"

"That's none of your concern," he dismisses. "Now, drink this. It will help you regain your strength." He holds a cup to my lips. It's some sort of broth.

Too weak to resist, I obediently let him feed me. After I finish, he moves away, jotting notes on the clipboard. Nausea rolls over me in waves, and I manage to lean over the edge of the bed before the soup reappears.

The doctor tsk's and writes on the board again before saying something to the soldier, who cleans up after me. "Sorry," I whimper, remembering how mad Hughes got at me whenever I didn't eat.

He rubs a napkin against my mouth. "We'll try that again later. Get some rest."

I think he stays in the room for a while, but he doesn't talk to me. I don't talk to him, either, too worried. America and Canada aren't going to find me here. I don't know where England is—I don't know how he's doing, how badly he's hurt. I don't know if they've already taken some of my blood. Well, the doctor said I had internal bleeding, and that I'm hurt pretty bad.... Maybe they think I could use all the blood I have.

It makes sense that they'd try to heal me before stealing my blood. If something happens to me, they could probably suck out what I had, but that would be it. If I'm alive and well, I'll be their own personal provider of it.

That leaves me with one option.

I have to kill myself.

I mean, no one's going to save me. Prussia's not here, and Canada and America don't know where to look for me. For all I know, England could be dead, so he can't help me, either. And I can't help myself—I'm  _far_ too weak. If I'm alive, they have a limitless supply of my blood. Would they actually use it? Or would they threaten the world to do their bidding first? Or both?

As soon as I have the opportunity, I'm going to try. I don't know how, though. I suppose I'll just have to be aware of any and all chances.

I hear the click of a door opening and closing. Someone converses with the doctor. I don't really care; I'm too tired. "Give me a minute with her," he requests quietly. English must be the only common denominator between the two.

The new man grabs a chair and sits at my side. I should probably look at him to see what he wants.... As soon as I turn my head, I gasp and scramble away as far as I can—it's Hughes. The heartbeat monitor next to me starts beeping faster.

The repercussions of my movement kick in, and I wheeze, my lungs not filling up like they should. "Let me tell you how this is going to work," he says.

"No— _no_ ," I beg, shaking my head.

His hand tightens across my mouth. Making me look at him, he continues. "You're going to do everything we say. You're going to  _behave_  yourself. Because if you don't...." He smirks. "If you don't... well, let's just say we're going to have some more  _fun_." Moving his hand, he caresses my cheek, tucking my bangs behind my ear.

I sob, hyperventilating. "I—I thought they—. "

"Fired me? They almost did." He runs his thumb tenderly over my bottom lip, feeling the scab he gave me. "However, I was let off with a warning because there are very few people to whom you'll listen; it will come in handy if you ever decide to become...  _unruly_."

I squirm under his touch, clenching my eyes shut. He continues. "When I give you an order, you are to follow it. You are to only speak when spoken to. Do you understand?" I shakily nod. "Good. Now, open your eyes."

I whimper, very reluctant. "Don't make me tell you again," he warns. Slowly, I obey. He's leaning in close—I can feel his breath on my face. Hughes smirks. "Good girl," he praises. "Now, stop crying."

I try to take a deep breath, but my lungs won't expand. "I can't," I manage, panting. "Please—I  _can't_ —I—I— ."

He grabs my chin harshly, his smile morphing into a snarl. "Issa.  _Stop crying._ "

"I can't!" I sob, tears falling heavier. "I can't!  _Please_ , I  _can't_!"

"General Hughes," the doctor interrupts sternly. "She needs  _rest_."

Hughes doesn't break eye contact with me. Slowly, his grip on my face loosens. "... _Fine_." He doesn't leave, though. "How did you get away?"

A sigh of relief escapes me—they don't know about Prussia. "I—I dunno," I manage. It's a bad excuse, but I don't have the brain power to think of a better one. "I went to sleep, a—and... there was someone helping, but... I don't remember a face...."

"If you're lying to me— "he starts to threaten.

I interject: "I'm not! I'm— ."

Moving faster than I expect, he slams his hand down on my ribcage, effectively shutting down my ability to talk. "Don't interrupt me!" I cry out in pain, my lament echoing throughout the mostly-empty room.

"General Hughes!" the doctor snaps. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

He glares at him, but he gets up. Turning to me again, "We'll continue this later." Then, he stalks out, slamming the door behind him.

I struggle weakly against the handcuffs, trying to protectively cover my chest, but the chains are short. I can't lift my arms, and it bothers me. "Thank you," I whimper to the doctor.

He's probably not supposed to talk to me, but it seems like there's something on his conscience. "...Your report noted that you have a torn hymen. That only happens to girls your age during rape.... Was that him?" 

Still fighting for breath, I manage to nod. "Yes," I murmur. "Th—they kidnapped me... and when I wouldn't stop tr—trying to get away... h—he... he drugged me...and—," my voice breaks, and I turn my head away, sobbing quietly. "I didn't do anything to them...! I just wanna go home...!"

I hope I've sparked some sense of humanity in him. Awkwardly, he pats my uninjured shoulder. "...There, there...."

I instinctively reach up to wipe my eyes, but the chains stop me. "Can you take these off? It's not like I can go anywhere...." 

He considers it. "Sure," he tells me, settling for securing the belt around my waist.

"Thank you," I say. He's so nice. "Wh—what's your name?"

"Dr. Carmine Maroni," he informs me, tapping a laminated identification card clipped to his blue scrubs. "And you are... Isabella Pryce, correct?"

"Issa," I offer. I think he's my primary doctor right now, so I might as well get to know him. Plus, he's already seen me naked. And he's already protected me from Hughes; he's the closest thing I have to a friend right now.

I want to talk to him, to explain why he needs to let me go, but I know it's fruitless. Besides, just the walk to the bathroom and back has winded me. So I sit on the bed in silence, running my fingers over the bandage on my hand.

Eventually, Dr. Maroni brings me more soup, and I manage to keep it down, which he says is a good sign. I don't want to get better, though. The sooner I get better, the sooner they start collecting my blood.

 

The day passes without further incident.

 

The next day passes smoothly, as well.

 

On the third day after the crash, Dr. Maroni makes a mistake. He notices that the stitches in my face need to come out. So, taking a small, sharp knife, he slices through the little black strings embedded in my cheek, gently removing them, and he sets the scalpel down on the bedside table. Collecting the sterile string in his hand, he turns to throw them away in the biohazard trash can against the far wall.

This is my chance. As quietly as I can, I reach for the scalpel. It's in my radius, but the act of leaning for it is excruciating. It was on my left side, and my shoulder is still healing from its dislocation. It stretches my ribs, too, leaving me panting for breath as I hide the little knife under the blanket.

And, for  _once_ , I get lucky. He doesn't notice that it's gone.

I should say goodbye to him. He deserves that much, at least; he's not a bad person. "Dr. Maroni," I say quietly, "thank you for being so nice to me."

He gives me a small smile. "You're welcome, Issa. By the way General Hughes described you, I thought you would be more of a handful."

"I probably would be if I weren't hurt so badly," I admit. "I—I just can't stay here...."

We have argued a little bit about that in the last two days. He's only following orders; I'm just trying to leave.

But I have my out, now. It will all be over soon.

After a routine check-up, Dr. Maroni leaves. There's always someone in the room with me, now. I can't be alone in here, I guess. That's okay; after a few minutes of silence, the soldier will be too bored to notice what I'm about to do.

I pretend to curl up under the blanket. In reality, I'm turning my back on the soldier and bringing the scalpel up. Trembling, I'm too numb and high on morphine to have any second thoughts. I've spent enough time thinking about this the past few days, and I'm absolutely sure that this is what I want. Before I get too scared, I hold the blade against my wrist, and I swipe it down and away.

It  _burns._  I've gotten pretty used to pain, but this is a whole new kind. Immediately, the slippery liquid spills from my severed vein. I'm shaking so hard that I almost drop the knife as I transfer it from my right hand to my left. Taking a deep breath, I injure myself in the same way on my other wrist.

There's so much blood. There's  _so much_  of it. I guess I should've expected at least this much. I don't know what I was expecting, honestly. It just surprises me, I guess.  _This is what I want_ , I remind myself.

I let out a shaky sigh. I  _think_  I'm content. As much as I'll miss my family, this is all for the best. They can't use me. I won't have to be here anymore. And, as each second passes, I'm slipping further and further away. Soon, they won't be able to save me.

Dying sure is uncomfortable. My vision blurs, not from my concussion. I start to shiver, feeling a chill run down my spine, but I'm sweating. Soon, I'm panting, but my breaths are shallower than ever before. I'm getting light-headed.

A thought occurs to me—I'm  _dying_. I just  _slit_   _open_   _my_   _wrists_. What was I  _thinking_?! It hurts—the cuts  _hurt_! I can't think—I can't  _breathe_! I—I... I don't think I want this...!

The heartbeat monitor is going crazy. I can barely hear it over the ringing in my ears. It can sense my heart slow because of the loss of blood, but it also picks up how it pumps in response to my adrenaline rush. It's supposed to be a steady beep, but the mechanic noises from the monitor are irregular, confused.

I think the soldier notices the dilemma, and his hands are on me, trying to figure out the problem. I don't care, though; I can't keep my eyes open. Finally, I'll be able to sleep. For good, this time. There's no more mornings. No more pain. I'm not going to wake up. This  _is_  what I want. Despite my mixed feelings, I  _know_  that this is what I want. Even so, the last breath I take before my consciousness finally wanes is a broken sob.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Will someone please turn off that alarm clock? I would snooze it myself, but I can't seem to make myself move. I don't want to get up. It snowed last night, didn't it? That's why it's so cold, right? The ground should be too icy to maneuver. I shouldn't have to go to school in these conditions. So I ignore the beeping, trying to slip back under.

But the incessant noise just gets louder and louder. Fine, fine. I'm up. I'm awake. Might as well be. Renae should be in here any minute now, cheerfully announcing the layer of powder on the ground. As time drags on, and Renae doesn't show, I'm confused.

Why am I in so much pain?

I whimper as I feebly stir. Slowly, I remember. The crash. The aftermath. What I did.

No— _no_ , this isn't supposed to happen—I'm supposed to be dead! I take a shuddering gasp, letting out a desperate whine. Warmth radiates from my eyes and trickles down—I'm crying. I'm  _so tired_  of crying.

"Miss Pryce?" a voice asks from far away. "Miss Pryce, don't move; you're very weak."

"No," I moan, feeling my expression twist in distress. The agony in my head is unbearable. "No, no,  _no_...." My body shakes as I sob, and pain stabs through every nerve.

"Shh," he soothes me. "You're okay." He touches my shoulder, and I try to lean away. "Don't move—stay still."

" _No_ ," I gasp, weakly trying to move away. I can't—I'm stuck. " _No!_ "

"Drink," he prompts me, and something touches my lips. Before I can tell him no, he tips it up, sending the liquid into my mouth. It's sweet—apple juice, maybe. He must be trying to get my blood sugar back up. But I inhaled some of it, and I sputter, trying to expel it from my lungs. "Sorry—sorry," the man apologizes, leaning my limp body forward and patting my back, helping me cough it up.

" _Why_?" I whimper as soon as I can breathe. "Y—you sh—should've let m—me  _die_!"

"Shh," he just says. He doesn't lay me back down; he hugs me, gently stroking my hair. "It's okay. You're okay."

"No, it's not," I sob. " _You should have let me die_."

 

 

I think I literally cried myself to sleep; I honestly don't remember the man laying me down. I don't know how long they let me sleep; all I know is that every once in a while, they rouse me, dumping water or juice or soup into my mouth before leaving me to pass out again. There's an IV drip in my arm again, but the liquid in the bag is red instead of clear. It must be blood; they're trying to replace what I lost.

We go through that cycle maybe five or six times before I surface completely. I let my eyes open, staring numbly at the dull ceiling tiles. Someone moves silently up to me—Dr. Maroni. "Here you go," he offers, holding something up to my mouth. This time, I'm conscious enough to refuse, turning my head away. "Hey," he protests, trying to make me drink.

Someone grips my shoulder so tightly it hurts. "Isabella, you are in  _enough_  trouble as it is," Hughes hisses at me, grabbing my face to make me look at him. " _Don't_  make things worse." I'm too weak to free myself, but I'm too fatigued to be scared. Silently, a fire burns in my glare as I maintain eye contact with him.

He was getting used to my submissive personality, so he does  _not_  appreciate my feisty side resurfacing. He snatches the cup from Dr. Maroni, and he empties its contents on my face.

I'm too surprised to react for a second. Then, I bypass anger, skipping straight to pure, unfiltered  _rage_. Curling my hands into fists, I try to sit up and attack him, but I can't—they've restrained me. It's not handcuffs—those would dig into my new wounds. These are a weird, complex bond. It's like a sling on each arm, except the ends are wrapped tightly around my palms and attached to the sides of the cot. The other end of the sling wraps around my shoulder so I can't slip it off. The important thing is that they have access to my wrists and that I can't bring my hands together.

Still—I thrash against it, hot broth dripping off my face. " _What the hell_?!" I scream, wriggling furiously against my bonds. My anger strengthens me, allowing me to struggle harder. I manage to free my right hand—I slip off the bandage over my knuckles, which frees the rest of my arm.

Not caring about the pain, I lash out and grab the collar of Hughes' shirt, yanking him towards me. My legs are unrestrained. I'm not even sure how I manage this—I loop my left calf around the back of his head, bracing him against the shin of my right leg. The legs are the strongest part of the body, and I make full use of that, trying to crush his neck. He scratches at me, hitting places he knows are weak, but I'm  _too angry_  to feel any pain.

Dr. Maroni helps Hughes, forcing me to release my hold on his head. Hughes backs away, rubbing his neck and gasping, looking downright  _murderous_. Since I'm still thrashing, Maroni manages to wrap something around my ankles, tethering them to the bottom of the cot so I can't kick. I scream profanity at him, yanking at his hair and slamming my fist against his head. At least a  _few_  of my blows must hurt, but he eventually pins me down again.

Hughes presses hard against my rib cage as he leans in close. "You're going to  _pay_  for that!" he bellows into my face. I think this is the first time he's raised his voice at me.

" _I'm not scared of you_!" I howl back.

"Enough!" Maroni shouts, holding me down by my collarbone while shoving Hughes away from me. "General Hughes, you have to  _leave_! And  _you_! Lie  _still_!"

Hughes storms from the room. I collapse under the restraints, and the hurt catches up with me, hitting me like a ton of bricks. I wail in agony in between desperate gasps for breath, writhing in pain. Maroni sticks a needle in my arm. " _Don't_!" I manage, feeling it spread throughout my arm.

"Shh!" he tells me harshly, and, circling me, he sighs. "You've broken your stitches on your leg and your wrist, and I wouldn't be surprised if you exacerbated the fracture in your hand," he informs me. Flipping my arm right arm over, he exposes the inside of my wrist. Several tiny black threads hang loosely from one side of the long red cut, which leaks fresh blood.

He goes to fetch some medical equipment. "Just let me bleed out," I plead, trying to move away when he reaches for my arm. "Let me die."

"I can't do that." He takes a small pair of scissors and cuts through the knots of the broken stitches, and he wipes away blood. Threading a new needle, he starts to sew my wound closed. Whatever he got me with numbs my whole body. I can still move, but I can't feel anything.

" _Please_!" I beg helplessly. "Please, you don't  _understand_ —."

"I am under orders from people ranked higher than Generals!" he snaps at me. "I am  _not_  about to let you die!"

"Exactly! If those people take my blood, they're going to kill a lot of people!" Just those few sentences have winded me, and, gasping, I continue. "Why else would they keep me prisoner?! You've checked my blood type, haven't you?! Please, a lot of people are going to die if  _I_   _don't_!"

He fumes silently. He refuses to hear any of my excuses. He keeps working, cauterizing and stitching up the injuries on my upper thigh. I cry out in frustration, flexing against my bonds. When he finally moves away, he doesn't make eye contact with me. "Go to sleep."

"Go to hell!" I bet he's changed his mind about how little of a handful I am. "What about the people you love?! They're going to die! Don't you  _care_?!"

Swiftly, he jabs another needle into my arm. "Ow!" I protest, but he doesn't pull it out until he's emptied the fluid into my bloodstream.

He doesn't say anything else to me, but I still cuss at him feebly until it kicks in, and I black out.

 

 

I come to. With a sigh, I check if I'm still thoroughly restrained. I am.

There's a presence in the room that I haven't felt in a while. Blearily, I force open my eyes, and I see none other than Germany himself, glaring at me from across the room with his arm crossed. He looks the same as he did, but I can't tell if he's angry at me for escaping or remorseful that he drove me so far as to try to kill myself.

I manage to sit up, glaring back at him. "Where's England?" I don't bother using his human name. He doesn't respond. "Okay,  _fine_. Where's Josh?" He remains silent, and my anger and frustration flares. " _Answer_  me!" I snarl, tugging uselessly on my restraints.

He doesn't, and that makes me  _so livid_. "Are you  _happy_  now?!" I growl, my voice rising in intensity. "You've  _got_  me! What're you gonna do, huh?! What are you gonna do?!"

Germany gives me one last hard look, and then he walks out.

I cuss at his retreating back, but if he understands, he doesn't retaliate.

 

 

I'm angry enough to cause problems for the doctors and soldiers that try to make me eat. They won't take off the restraints for me to feed myself, which is embarrassing since they've started bringing me solid foods instead of soupy broth. I feel like an unruly toddler, turning away every time they hold a spoon to my lips.

 The ones that speak English try to be nice, try to coax me into eating rather than shove it in my mouth. The ones that don't speak English, or the ones that just get fed up with me, usually end up holding me down and forcing my jaw open. Others take the "eat it or wear it" rule seriously; more than once they've had to change my gowns because of food stains, which is  _also_  embarrassing because they took off my underwear sometime after the crash. 

To make things harder on them, I've stopped communicating. Someone asks me a question, I ignore them. If something hurts, I don't tell them. I've stopped squirming against my restraints, too. No eye contact. No words. No emotions. 

Plus, I think I have a cold. In addition to my concussion, I have a fever, so my head is in constant pain. They piled blankets on top of me to try to get me to sweat it out, which is  _annoying_  because it's  _too hot_. And my legs are still tied down, so I can't kick it off. I think it has something to do with the blood they have in the IV bag. Maybe it's the wrong type; I know that you get sick if you're exposed to a blood type that's not compatible with your own. Everyone is supposed to respond to O-negative blood, which I think is what they have me on now, but I don't know why I wouldn't be responding positively to that. 

Whatever. It's just another mystery, I guess. 

Hughes comes this time. I'm still afraid of him, but I don't show it. I just stare forward, keeping a neutral expression, giving him the same silent treatment I give everyone else.

He pulls up a chair and sinks in it. "You've been very bad," he points out. I don't even acknowledge him. "They've requested that I step in." I manage to hold back the gasp that I want to release, and I give him a worried glance. Is he—...? Is he going to rape me again...?

No—he seems to be keeping his hands to himself. "However, it is Dr. Maroni's opinion that your body cannot take any more stress." I let out a quiet sigh of relief, but he continues, "So I've come up with an alternative punishment."

He gets up and exits, leaving me confused. But, a few seconds later, he comes back, and I gasp in horror.

My voice is hoarse since I haven't spoken in days. " _Renae_!" I howl as he drags in my little sister. Her rusty brown hair is held back with a ponytail, but it's starting to loosen, wavy strands swishing around her face. Her arms are behind her back. Hughes keeps his grip on her upper arm, forcing her along. Thankfully, she appears unhurt.

"Issa!" she whimpers, not daring to struggle. "Issa—what's going on?!"

"Let her go!" I scream at him, thrashing against my restraints. Hot, angry tears spill down my cheeks. " _Let her go_! Your problem is with  _me_ ,  _not_  her!"

"Exactly," Hughes hisses, shaking my sister a little bit. "My problem is  _you_." He softens a little bit, rubbing Renae's shoulders. She ducks her head and sobs, terrified. Stroking her hair, he continues, "From now on, if you don't behave yourself, punishments will be inflicted on her."

"You son of a bitch," I snarl, struggling for breath. "You son of a  _bitch_!"

He grabs a fistful of her hair and yanks up, forcing Renae on her tiptoes. She cries out in pain. "Issa,  _please_ —help me!"

"You see how this works?" he asks calmly, keeping Renae up on her toes. "If you act up, she gets hurt."

"Stop it!  _Please_ — leave her out of this!" Still fighting my bonds, "Okay! I'll be good— _please_ , I'll be good!"

Hughes lowers her, gently smoothing down her disheveled hair. "Excellent."

"It's okay, Renae," I tell her. "It's gonna be okay—I won't let them hurt you!"

Nodding smugly, Hughes wraps one arm around her, pulling her away. "Issa,  _help_!" she sobs, wiggling feebly.

" _NO!_ " I scream, fighting harder than ever. " _Bring her back_! Renae— _Renae_!"

They leave the room, but I keep shouting and thrashing until I have to drop back against the cot, black spots forming in my vision. I gasp desperately for breath, crying so hard that my entire body shakes with each exhale. I can't think—I can't breathe...!

How did he get to her?! I told them to leave the country! I told them to go into hiding!

Dr. Maroni appears drawn to the irregular beeping of the heart monitor. "Calm down, Miss Pryce," he tells me, laying a hand on my shoulder.

"He took my sister!" I manage in between shuddering gasps. " _He took my sister_!"

"Shh, calm down...."

"She's not a part of this! She's not supposed to be here!" I wail, weakly pulling on my restraints.

"You're having a panic attack," he diagnoses. "Breathe deeply." He starts to fumble with something, looping something around my face and sticking it up my nose. It's an oxygen mask. It helps a little bit, but not much, since I still can't fully inflate my lungs.

"I  _can't_!" I howl. I hyperventilate, taking quick, short breaths. I'm getting lightheaded. Leaning back against the bed, I make a genuine attempt to slow my breaths, but I can't, and I faint.

 

 

Hughes sets up a new system. If I manage to behave myself, he'll bring Renae to see me. For a few agonizing hours, I let the soldiers and doctors shovel food into my mouth. I answer questions. I am a model patient. He must decide that's good enough for now, and he escorts her in. Her hands are cuffed in front of her this time, and she doesn't look hurt. "Issa!" she sobs, rushing to my side as soon as Hughes lets go of her arm.

I scoot into a sitting position. I want to reach for her, but I can't because of the stupid restraints. "Renae! Renae, sweetie, look at me—are you okay?"

"Y—yeah, I'm okay," she tells me shakily. "What about you? You look hurt!"

"It's nothing," I dismiss. "A couple of scratches. Renae—why are you here?"

"We were gonna leave right after school," she explains tearfully. "I got called out of class, a—and someone told me that they were one of your new friends, and that you needed help—so I got in their car—but they gave me a shot, and I fell asleep! I—I feel so  _stupid_!" she exclaims in frustration, shaking her head. "I should've  _known_ —stranger danger!"

"Shh, shh, Renae," I sooth, wriggling against my restraints to take her hand. "It's not your fault. You only wanted to help. Shh, it's okay. It's  _my_  fault—I should've introduced you guys.... Maybe I shouldn't have even gone to see you...."

"I'm so scared," she cries.

"I know, baby—I know," I tell her, my own tears falling. I'm trying so hard to keep it together for her sake, but I can't. "It's gonna be okay—I won't let them hurt you...." I squeeze her fingers. "Look at me—you trust me, right?" She manages a nod, and I give her an encouraging smile. "Good. Listen to me—I need you to be brave, okay? Can you do that for me?" She nods again. "Good. I love you so much, okay?"

"What happened to you? You said you got away!"

"I did! For a while, anyway.... I was driving with my friend, a—and they—I think they hit our car with theirs, and then they took me back.... And they're trying to help me get better, but...." I sigh. Being honest with my emotions, "I'm scared, too.... I don't know where my friend is.... I don't know if my other friends know where I am, so I don't know if they'll come to get me.... And it hurts to breathe...."

"Wh—what does your friend look like? Does he have messy blond hair and big eyebrows?"

"Yes!" I exclaim, smiling genuinely for the first time in a while. "Yes, that's him!" A thought occurs to me—I don't know if she's talking about Josh or England. "How old is he? Is he my age, or older?"

"Um, your age," she says. "He said... he said his name is... Josh, I think? H—he's nice.... He talks funny, though...."

"Yeah, he's got an accent," I confirm, relieved to know that Josh is alive and well. "Tell him I said hi, okay?" She nods.

Hughes decides she has to leave. As he tries to pull her away, Renae clings to my arm, sobbing, "No—please,  _no_!  _Please_!"

"It's okay—it's okay!" I comfort. "Renae, it's okay! Go with him—be brave, okay?" Very reluctantly, she lets go, and she obediently follows Hughes out of the room.

I remain sitting, curling down as much as I can so no one can see me cry. I shouldn't have gone to see them in DC. Maybe I shouldn't have even talked about them in Berlin. I did mention how much she means to me, and if they can't hurt my body enough to get me to behave, it makes sense for them to threaten someone I love. I just wish they could have threatened from afar—Renae's going to have a hard time recovering from this. She's traumatized!

The only thing I wanted to do is keep her safe. I just want to protect her from the same tidal wave that drowns me, but, how can I? I have no power here! I've run _completely_  out of options. I couldn't even manage to  _kill_  myself! I'm  _going_  to get better, and they're  _going_  to take my blood, and they're  _going_  to use it to hurt people! And there's nothing—absolutely  _nothing_ —that I can do about it!

 

 

Maroni comes to me to inform me of something else about which I have no choice: surgery. "Why?" I ask, not pleased with the idea. 

"As of right now, the tip of your rib is floating around in your chest; it's completely broken off. We need to—."

I interrupt. "Take it out?" I guess. 

"Actually," he says, "we've developed a way to fuse it back to how it was."

I frown. "You're going to weld my bones back into place." 

"Well, would you rather have it loose? It could puncture a different organ if we leave it." 

Yes, I want to say. Yes, I would rather leave it so it can puncture something else. In case he hasn't noticed, I tried to kill myself, and it would be a blessing for it to stab my heart and kill me. But I remain silent; Dr. Maroni is a lot nicer than everyone else, so I don't think he'd report to Hughes about my insubordination. But I don't want to risk it. I hate that they're just dangling Renae's safety in front of me. 

I sigh, fidgeting a little. I really don't want surgery. "...Will it hurt?" I ask. My voice is quiet and feeble, and he seems to take a little bit of pity on me. 

"Not as much as you'd think," he assures me. "We'll make two incisions here and here," he gently draws two vertical lines on my upper torso with his finger, "instead of cutting you all the way open. Then, we'll have tweezers and a camera to take the bone and position it, and we'll fuse it back to where it was. It's not as invasive as other surgeries, and, with luck, it'll heal quickly. Then, your lung will heal, and, for the most part, you'll be all better." 

I scowl, looking away. "They're planning a genocide," I tell him quietly.  "They'll put their plan in motion as soon as they can take my blood." 

"I don't want to hear this, Miss Pryce," he says warningly. 

Renae's safety is at risk, but,  _still_ — "Haven't you wondered why I'm not responding to the O-negative blood?" 

He purses his lips, giving me a glare. "It isn't my place to interfere with anything that's happening." 

I shake my head pleadingly, but I can't bring myself to argue any further. 

"We need to take an X-ray to determine exactly where your rib is at," he says, and he dismisses himself, bringing back a wheelchair. He and the daily guard untie me and help me into it. Maroni wraps an adhesive bandage on each of my wrists, protecting the cuts from the handcuffs he then fastens. I don't fight, but I desperately want to. 

They wheel me into a different room, uncuff me, and make me lie on a table. Someone positions a heavy lead blanket on me to protect me from the radiation, and they fiddle with the X-ray machine, which hangs ominously overhead. They leave. 

I squirm a little bit, uncomfortable. I'm unrestrained for the first time in a long while, but I'm too afraid to get up and leave like I want. 

Apparently the broken tip of my rib is floating above my diaphragm. It broke off of the second bone up from the bottom of my rib cage on my right side. 

It surprises me that they want to start the surgery right away. They have the resources to do it whenever, I guess. I'm just nervous; I've never had surgery before, and I don't want to have it done by some evil scientist in an evil organization. 

I don't have a choice, though. I never do. 

 

About an hour later, some people wheel me into a different room to start the anesthesia process. "No need to be worried, Miss Pryce," a stranger wearing a lab coat reassures me as he fiddles with an IV bag. "You won't feel a thing."  

I want to say something smart and snarky, but the only thing I manage is a tiny whine of disapproval. 

I look away as he readies himself to poke the needle in my vein, and something catches my eye—another cot, shoved up against the wall in the corner. 

"Wait!" I cry. "Is that— England?!" I flex against the restraints around my wrists, trying to see better. He's unconscious, and he looks awful—he's a sickly pale, and he's got a bunch of lacerations crisscrossed around his face, particularly around his nose. They've hooked him up to an IV, too, but the liquid in his bag is a translucent green, like swamp water. Is it supposed to be helping him? I can't imagine anything that color benefiting him. 

"Ow!" I snap back to attention as the doctor pricks me with the needle. "Is he okay?" I insist, trying my hardest not to struggle away and rush to his side. 

"Don't worry about him," the guy says, and he blocks my view with a curtain. 

"He's my friend," I plead. 

"Shh." He pulls something over my face, securing it over my nose and mouth. "Breathe deeply." 

The strange gas enters my lungs, and I get sleepy. "England," I whimper just before I black out. 

 

 

 

 

I guess everything goes smoothly. When I wake up, they must still have me on some pretty heavy painkillers, because I'm very groggy. My hands are tethered to the bed, like usual. Upon further inspection, they've put a thing around my ankle so I can't get away, and I'm still belted down.

Upon noticing I'm awake, the soldier posted next to me summons Dr. Maroni. "How do you feel?" 

"Pain," I answer weakly. My voice is hoarse, cracked with fatigue. It definitely feels like I've been cut open and stitched back together. 

He messes with the IV bag connected to my arm, and a cool rush runs through my arm. Slowly, some of the hurt ebbs away, and I sigh in relief. "Better?" he asks. I nod feebly. "Everything went well; I didn't want to make you nervous, but that was a fairly new procedure that hadn't been tested often." 

"Oh," I respond dismally. "Great." 

 He holds a saltine cracker to my mouth, and I obediently let him feed me. He pretends he doesn't notice me crying for a few minutes. Then, he runs a tissue under my eyes. "I'm sure it's not as bad as you think," he tries. 

"Say that again after they launch their first attack," I mumble bitterly. 

"There won't be an attack." 

"Why else would they keep me here like this?" Maroni sighs, and he holds another cracker to my lips. "I don't want any more," I protest, blinking back more tears. 

"Eat this, and then you can go back to sleep," he says, so I do. True to his word, he leaves me alone. I close my eyes, unable to stop the trickle of water spilling down my cheeks.

I shouldn't be here now. I should be at home, doing homework. Or—what time is it? I should be in school. 

But I'm not. I'm here, waiting impatiently for my internal and external injuries to heal. Then they'll take my blood. Then they'll kill my friends, causing a massive international depression. They'll become the world superpowers. 

All this for global domination. 

I hate that I'm an essential part of this. Will my name go down in history? Will  _Pryce_  be synonymous with  _destruction_? Or will I be erased from this all? I'd like that a lot better. Actually, I'd prefer it if they just came to their senses, realized that this is all wrong. I want them to let me go, and then just  _forget_  about me. 

I hate this. I just hate this so much.  

 

The day after the surgery, I hear someone in the halls talking loudly in a different language. It sounds like Spanish to me, but it would make more sense for it to be Italian, since that's where we are. They left the door open, so when he passes, I see him—dark brown hair, around my height, wearing a deep scowl as he talks to Italy. Romano. Or... South Italy, I guess. I thought Venice was North Italy's territory, though, so I don't know what he's doing here.

I've noticed this a few times with other nations—I can  _feel_ them. There's something about their presence that's...  _tangible_. Maybe it's vice versa, too—that would have helped them find all of us the first time. They know the general area where we are, and other people might have looked  _kind of_  like us, but there's something about us that separates us from others.

And I guess Romano feels me, too, because he looks in my direction, staring at me accusingly with his olive-colored gaze.

I don't think Romano is in on this thing, whatever it is, because Italy starts to discourage him from staring at me. But that just makes him more suspicious and/or curious. He argues with his brother about me. I mean, I'm an injured human kid guarded by at least one soldier at all times like I'm some sort of criminal. I'd probably be curious, too. Plus, I look like Canada. And America, too, I guess, but specifically Canada.

He marches right up to me, but I'm not scared of him. He's harmless. And there's nothing he can do to me that would make anything worse than it already is. I think he's talking to me, now, but it's in Italian, and I can't understand him. Switching to Japanese, I think he asks me what my problem is. I mimic him, asking him what  _his_  problem is. It's probably not the smartest idea—maybe talking back like this could be considered misbehavior, which would make them keep Renae away from me.

He says something about my hands and feet—maybe he's asking why I'm so thoroughly restrained. I shrug. He keeps frowning at me, his eyes shifting over my scarred face, to the oxygen mask they make me wear sometimes when I panic so hard that I can't breathe, to the bruises on my neck, and he stops when he notices the cuts on my wrists. He asks me—rather harshly, in my opinion—why I did that. " _Anata no tomodachitachi wa kikken desu_ ," I inform him, trying not to take the same bad attitude he's showing me. "Your friends are dangerous."

It's an odd answer to a complex question. I tried to kill myself because his friends are dangerous? What does Romano make of it? He asks Feliciano, who probably makes some sort of excuse. I can tell Romano doesn't buy it, though. I think he understands that my restraints aren't only to keep me from hurting myself—they're to keep me from escaping, too. Which just makes him that much more confused.

As if drawn to the confrontation between the two nations, Japan and Germany appear. A pang of fear goes through me—does telling him what's happening count as misbehaving? Are they going to hurt Renae? Also, what the hell is Japan holding? It looks like an oversized pistol, but there are a lot of wires and knobs on it. It doesn't look like it shoots bullets. If I'm not mistaken, it looks like it shoots some kind of ray. They shoo the daily guard away, and I sit up slightly; something's about to happen. 

Germany seems mad at Romano, but Romano doesn't care what he thinks. Italy stands nervously at my side, like he still wants to be my friend, but he's scared of the repercussions. Japan just fiddles with his contraption until he finally interrupts the argument. Germany nods and stands back, staring at me, and he barks at Italy and Romano to do the same. Japan steps directly in front of me, and he points the thing at me.

I know I said I wanted to die, but I can't help but feel terror as he aims his weapon at me. "Wait—wait," I manage, struggling a little against my restraints. If he wants me dead, I'd rather it be by my own hand.

He doesn't wait. He squeezes the trigger.

I cry out in pain as  _whatever_  it is hits my chest. Is it a rubber bullet? All I know is that as soon as it impacts, I can't breathe. I'm getting eerily  _used_  to the feeling of breathlessness, but this is different. Whatever he shot me with seems to attack my nervous system, paralyzing me. 

My vision stops working, like someone turned off the lights. I feel my body convulsing, but I can't stop myself. It hurts—it hurts  _so much_. There's a siren going off, and it's only when I take a breath do I realize it's my own screaming.  

Very abruptly, everything except the pain stops. I stop twitching. I stop screaming. I stop  _breathing_. 

But I'm still conscious? Through the agony, I hear  a long, monotone mechanical noise and voices that sound panicked. The words don't sound English, but I still understand: "—should've tested it more thoroughly!" "— worked in all the trials, I don't understand why it—." "Oh my God, she's  _dead_ , you  _killed_ her!" "—not about to lose her—." "Stand back, stand back—." 

**_ZAP_ **

I feel my whole body seize up, and the majority of the pain localizes on two circles on my upper chest. 

That snaps me out of whatever condition they inflicted on me, and I take a shuddering gasp. That wasn't enough air—none of my breaths are deep enough to give me the oxygen I need, and I hyperventilate. Someone puts a mask over my mouth and nose. Instinctively, I reach up to secure it, and I'm surprised to find that my hands are unrestrained. 

"—the  _hell_  did you do to her?!" someone exclaims furiously. A familiar voice.... 

"—didn't test it on someone her age, or someone in her condition—." Another familiar person.... But I can't say for sure who it is.... "—so the stress of it probably overwhelmed—." 

"Are you  _listening_  to me?! What the  _fu_ —!" 

"It's okay— it's okay, just breathe," someone beside me soothes, their hand covering mine on the mask. It helps— I'm trembling so hard that I might have dropped it without their assistance. Do I know this person? I think I do.... 

"—That was  _too close_ , Japan. We can't afford to lose her." A deeper voice, one I know I hate.

" _Hey_!" the first voice yells. "Anyone notice there's a _human kid_  here that  _died_  for a few seconds?! Someone wanna tell me what you jackasses are up to?!" 

" _No_. This doesn't concern you. You need to  _leave_." 

"Hey! Get your hands off me, you motherfu—!" 

"She's awake!" someone yelps as I weakly raise my eyelids. Slowly, I focus on... Italy? But I... shouldn't be able to understand him...? I realize he's holding my hand, and I don't like it, so I pull it away. 

Looking around, I see Japan, Germany, and Romano. They're all staring at me in anticipation, but for what, I don't know. No one says anything for a long time, so I ask, "Wh' happened?" 

Japan and Germany relax. "Nice work," the latter says. 

I frown. I definitely shouldn't be able to understand him. Starting to panic, "What'd you do t'me?" I push the oxygen mask away from me and wipe at my running nose, and I'm surprised to find my hand stained red. I'm bleeding from both nostrils. Realizing my ears are aching, I touch them, only to find blood there too. "What'd you do to me?!" 

"Relax," Japan tells me, coming forward to examine me. 

He has a tissue. He's going to take my blood. I don't know what else to do to stop him except run my entire forearm under my nose, hoping it'll dry on my skin and be useless. "Don't touc—." My voice dies as I remember Renae and their perpetual threat. Still, I find myself leaning away and trying to shield my face. "Please don't—."

Romano shoves Japan away from me. "She doesn't want you to touch her!" 

"Stand aside, Romano," Germany orders, looking angry. Japan brushes himself off, affronted. 

"What the  _hell_  are you guys  _doing_?!" he shouts. Turning to me, "What are they doing to you?" 

"I—," I squeak, "—I don't—I—I—." I don't understand what just happened. Japan shot me with something, and it apparently killed me for a few seconds, and now I can understand them? I look down, and fear jolts through me as I realize there's a huge rip down the front of my hospital gown, showing two medium-sized burns on my exposed chest. I scramble to cover myself. 

"We had to restart your heart," Japan explains apologetically. "Defibrillators only work with direct skin contact." I know that; Mom taught me first aid a while ago. But I still feel violated and embarrassed. I cover my face, the other hand still clenching the rip closed. I'm crying again. 

"That kid is  _terrified_!" Romano shouts at Germany. "What could you  _possibly_  be doing with her?"

"It's none of your business!" he thunders, making me flinch. 

Italy interrupts. "Guys, you're stressing her out! She needs to rest!" 

"I still need to run some tests to make sure she'll be okay," Japan says. No, no, I'm done with tests. I'm done with them touching me. They need to leave me  _alone_.

Italy finally moves from my side. "...Romano, you should go," he says quietly. 

"You too?!" he exclaims. " _You're_  supposed to be the one who cares about people, not  _me_! What's  _wrong_  with you?!" 

"...Please, Romano," Italy responds, hanging his head guiltily. 

I see Romano's eyes flick over to me, and I meet his gaze pleadingly.  _Please don't leave me with them_ , I beg silently. 

He snorts in anger, mutters something in Italian that sounds like profanity, and marches away. 

The small part of me that dared to hope  _shatters_. 

I'm vaguely aware of Japan talking to me. "We decided it would be much easier for everyone if we could communicate. I had no idea you would have such a violent reaction to it, so I apologize." He says something else, maybe explaining how that ray gun works. Something about scrambling the neurotransmitters in my brain to make me understand Japanese without going through the hassle of learning it. I just zone out, trying to comprehend these new events. 

I snap back to attention when I feel Japan start trying to open the rip in the hospital gown. "I need to tend to your burns," he explains, giving the fabric a gentle tug. When I don't loosen my white-knuckled grip, he adds, "It could get infected." 

"Just knock her out again," Germany suggests harshly, staring at me from across the room. 

"I would, but I don't know if it's safe. She might not wake up." Trying to look in my eyes, he muses, "It may have damaged her brain. We should do a scan." 

"Good idea," he says, and he unlocks the belt around my waist and frees my ankles. I flinch and squeak in fear as he tries to pick me up, starting to struggle. "Don't fight," he snaps. "You'll rip your stitches." 

"She's scared of you," Italy points out. 

"So?" 

"So you're scaring her! She's not going to get better if she's always stressed out like this!" Italy puts two fingers on my neck, apologizing when I flinch. "Her heart's racing. A heart that stopped beating a few minutes ago, remember?" 

"Valium it is, then," Germany decides. I run through a list of medicine names I know until I remember— Valium is a sedative, used to calm people down before surgeries so they don't have panic attacks when the anesthesiologist starts to knock them out. Keeps you docile, but doesn't put you to sleep; even though he's using this against me, I have to admit—that's a pretty good strategy. 

"Germany, c'mon," Italy pleads. "Let's just leave her alone." 

But he has a bottle of pills, and he shakes some out into his hand. Unsure of what else to do to defend myself, I fumble with the oxygen mask, holding it against my face. He can't force-feed me medicine if my mouth's covered. Realizing my scheme, he snarls. "You can either take these yourself, or I'll make you. Your choice." 

"Just take them," Italy tells me, looking genuinely worried for me. He's gotten me a styrofoam cup of water. "It'll be easier." 

I'm so scared. But I know I'm more afraid of Germany, so I'll do whatever I can to discourage him from touching me. Slowly, I lower the mask and hold out my hand. "Good girl," he praises as he deposits the pills in my palm. I flinch and try to conceal a grimace. That's what Hughes says when I do what he tells me. Nonetheless, I obey and swallow the medicine. 

Since this is Italy's base, and I'm assuming all the doctors and technicians are Italian, he goes to start setting up the equipment. He looks reluctant to leave me alone with Germany and Japan. He's gone for maybe five minutes before I start to feel the drug's effects. 

The new feeling of drowsiness strengthens my courage, and I dare to let my voice sound throughout the silent room. "What did you do to England?" 

If I startled the nations, they don't show it. "None of your business," Germany remarks snidely. 

I know I should drop it, but I need to know. "Yes it is," I say. "He's my friend." 

"Was it him who helped you escape?" 

I have to remember to stick to my story. "I—I don't remember who helped me." 

He's not convinced. "Are you sure it wasn't my brother?" 

"Depends. Who's your brother?" 

He enters my personal space, and I instinctively turn away. "Don't play dumb with me," he growls. 

"I'm not," I insist, still facing away from him. 

"Look me in the eyes, and say that again," he orders. All I can think of is America telling me what a bad liar I am; I must have an obvious tell, but I don't know what it is, otherwise I could control it. "I'm waiting," Germany points out, his tone sharp. 

Steeling all my courage, I take as deep a breath as I can, and I face him. "You people drugged me. I was barely awake." There. It's not a lie. To emphasize this, as frightened as I am, I don't break eye contact with him. 

He narrows his eyes, glaring at me, and my eyes are watering, but I don't look away. Finally, he grunts and moves away. 

Italy comes back. He looks relieved that I'm still alive. "Okay, the MRI's running." He brought a wheelchair with him. 

"Excellent," Japan says. He looks back at me, and I sit up, starting to try to stand, but I recoil when I feel Germany touch me. 

"I'll walk," I snap, slipping off the cot before they can stop me. Immediately, I start to collapse, but I catch myself. Cursing quietly, I press a hand against my chest, wincing. 

"Don't exacerbate your stitches," Japan scolds. I want to make a scathing comment, but I don't, settling for glaring at my feet. 

"Oh, here," Italy says. He shrugs off his sweatshirt, a light green zip-up hoodie, and he offers it to me. "So you don't have to—," he takes a handful of his own shirt, gesturing to how tightly I hold the rip in the hospital gown. 

I don't move for a while, just looking at the garment. Why is he being so nice to me? Finally, I nod, and I let him help me put it on. He pulls the zipper all the way up and smiles at me. Then he licks his thumb and runs it under my nose. "Got some blood, there," he explains. 

Pulling the sleeve over my hand, I wipe his spit off my face, mumbling, "Ew." 

I stop suddenly, holding the fabric of the sleeve under my nose. It smells like Italy, and he smells like spaghetti sauce and bittersweet coffee. I don't know why that scent combination makes me freeze. Individually, they're fine. But whenever I smell garlic and cappuccino at the same time, I stop whatever I'm doing and breathe it in. 

It's so hypnotizing that I don't notice Germany enter my personal space, but I snap back to reality when he touches me. "Sit down," he orders, so I do. I hold the sleeve to my nose for the remainder of the trip. 

We must be at the room. Japan holds the door open. I think Germany purposefully makes my chair hit the doorframe on the way in, and he ignores the way I whine in protest. He puts me on a table. "Are you going to behave, or do I need to tie you down?" 

"Buddy, I am too flippin' stoned to do anything but lay here." I know that stoned isn't the right word, probably, but I don't care. 

"Good," he says. 

He starts to walk away, but I grab his attention. "Hey. Wanna know a secret?" He turns back to me. I wonder if he thinks I'm about to tell him something important. But I'm not. "I hate you." 

That seems to amuse him. "I don't care." 

"I know you don't. But I'm mad at you." I point a finger at him for emphasis. "You're a bad person." 

"Anything else to share?" 

"Yeah. It's really messed up that you didn't fire him," I comment, letting my hand fall back to my side. "And it's really messed up that you brought my sister into this. And another thing—." 

My words break off into a squeak when he grabs my wrist and puts it over my nose. I relax, letting the calming scent soothe me. I'm vaguely aware of Germany laughing at me. "Japan, come look at this," he says. "It's like catnip to her." 

He drops my arm. Focusing on Japan, I glare at him. "And  _you_! I don't  _want_  to communicate with you jackasses, and you nearly kill me trying to get your stupid science experiment to work! It's just—."

Germany puts the sleeve back over my nose, and I fall silent again. I know it's funny to them, and a small part of me is embarrassed. I really don't know why I react to much to this scent! It's... melancholy. It makes me sad and scared, but overall,  _confused_. Something bad happened, and I don't know why. I guess I'm trying to comprehend everything when I smell it. 

"Did you lace something into this?" I hear Germany ask. 

"I mean, I've spilled alfredo on it before, but no drugs, if that's what you're asking," Italy responds, just as confused as the others. He doesn't find it as amusing. 

Germany pulls my hand away, and he smells my wrist. "Just garlic," he comments. "So why are you acting weird?" 

"I—I...," I stammer. Slowly, I pull my other sleeve to my nose. "...I dunno...." A thought occurs to me, and I try to yank myself out of Germany's grasp. "I'm tired. Did you break my brain or not?" 

They leave the room to work the machine. I did  _not_  miss MRIs. Then they leave me on the table to examine the image of my internal organs. Italy sits next to me. "You have to stay awake." 

"Don't wanna," I slur, turning my head away and closing my eyes. 

"If you go to sleep, there's a chance you won't wake up," he says. 

"That sounds  _great._ "

"No, not great." He holds my hand, and I'm too tired to care. "You'll die." 

"Don't threaten me with a good time," I mumble. "There's a song about that." 

Squeezing my hand, "Okay, sing it to me." 

"Nah." I turn my head to face him and open my eyes. "I'm disappointed in you," I inform him. 

Italy's slight smile falls, and he looks away. "Oh." 

"You're not supposed to be evil," I whisper, my fingers twitching around his hand. "You're, like, the  _nicest_  character. In the show—." 

Japan swoops in and presses my sleeve against my nose, and my mind is cloudy again. "So, upon initial impact, it appears that her brain swelled, which is why she started bleeding from the nose and ears. It looks normal now, though, so she should be fine." 

"I can sleep now?" I ask hopefully. 

"After I check your heart." 

" _Ugh_ , stethoscope," I mumble, closing my eyes again. 

I flinch slightly when Germany picks me up, but other than that, I'm still. He puts me back in the wheelchair, and he wheels me away. At one point, he jostles me, scolding me for trying to sleep. Without opening my eyes, I hold up my middle finger and wave it around his face. He sighs but doesn't retaliate. 

He puts me on my cot. Someone took the opportunity to change the sheets. Germany holds my shoulders up so I stay sitting. He unzips the sweatshirt, and I frown and try to cover myself. I frown even more when he pulls it off my shoulders and gives it back to Italy. "Hey," I complain. I open my eyes when I feel someone unzip the hospital gown. " _Hey._ "

"Stop squirming." I shudder when I feel the cold stethoscope on my back. He does the whole stethoscope thing: "Breathe in. Breathe out." Then the cold circle disappears and reappears over my heart. 

"Ow," I manage. I'm burned there. I forgot about that. My heart actually stopped, I guess. I kind of wish it didn't start again. After examining me and finding out that my circulatory system is still in working order, he grabs my wrists and restrains me as Japan looks at the electrical burns on my chest. "Hey!" I protest when his hand travel too low for my liking. 

"Relax," he dismisses. He rubs antibacterial ointment on the affected skin, and he covers both of them with two different sticky bandages. "Now, don't panic. We're just going to change your gown."

"I can do it myself," I insist, but they're already done. 

They finally let me lay down. "You can sleep now," Japan says. 

"Yay," I mumble. 

They're still in the room for a few minutes after that. I can tell by the size of his hand that Germany is the one who starts chaining me to the bed. Of course. I shouldn't have gotten used to my short-lived freedom from the restraints. 

"Germany, I was thinking...," Italy says quietly. "Why are we doing this? Is it really worth it?" 

I hear him sigh. "She got into your head." 

"No, she didn't." They're silent for a few moments. "It's just... this all just seems so... so  _wrong_." 

"Feliciano, you're not  _doubting_  me, are you?" I'm taken aback; I think this is the first time Germany has referred to another country by their human name. There must be some sort of... intimacy associated with their human names. Like, using their country names is a formality, a sign of respect, but using human names is friendlier. He's being manipulative. 

"No, of course not. I just.... Isn't there another way? A way that doesn't involve hurting people?" 

"We're about to start a war. People are going to get hurt. You're just uncomfortable seeing it up close." Germany reaches over me to pull the belt across my hips, and he tightens it so I can't get up. "I thought you  _wanted_  revenge. They  _humiliated_ us in the first two wars. We need to prove our power." 

"But...." 

Before Italy can form his thoughts, Germany interrupts. "Listen." He yanks on the belt, making it uncomfortably tight. "If you're not  _with_  me, you're  _against_  me. So? Where do you stand?" 

There's a long, uncomfortable silence. I struggle with consciousness. I need to know how this conversation ends. 

Finally Italy says, "I'm with you. I'll always be on your side." 

I had thought I was as sad as I could be. But Italy's words break a sliver of hope I didn't know I had left. 

 

 

My dream is gray. I'm at home, but I can't get out of bed. My duvet is a weight on my chest, anchoring me to the mattress. I call for Mom, but she either doesn't hear me, or she doesn't care. I slowly gather the strength to slip out from under the blanket, rolling off the side of my bed.

But my feet don't hit the floor—I pass seamlessly through the carpet, free-falling. I flail midair; I want to land on my feet, not my back. But I don't know which way is up and which is down. My hair whips around my face, not blown back from any discernible source. I'm naked, and the wind chills me to the bone.

All I can see is a dense fog, but it's raining from the low clouds. I whimper as the cold water penetrates through my skin. Water gets in my eyes, and I inhale the droplets, making me cough desperately. Why can I never breathe? Why is it always so hard?

If it's possible, the clouds get thicker and darker. Thunder rumbles, so loud I'm afraid I'll go deaf. 

I see the lightning bolt coming towards me before it actually hits.

 

 

A hand brushes against my wrist, and their touch sparks. 

 "Wh—what? Hey—who—mmph!" They press a hand against my mouth, silencing me.

"Shh!" the stranger orders me. "We don't have much time." He fumbles with my restraints, freeing my hands, and then my ankles, and then the belt around my waist. "These yours?" he slips glasses onto my face before I can answer. Pulling me up, "Come on. Can you walk?"

"I—I can try," I answer quietly. The only time they've let me stand is when they're escorting me to the bathroom, and even those short walks leave me winded. Shakily, I press my feet against the cold tile, transferring my weight up. I wobble immediately, and the man wraps my arm around his shoulder, looping his other one around my waist.

"Quickly," he tells me, helping me limp with him. He has an Italian accent. Not many people here can speak Japanese, so that leaves two people. As we step into the corridor, the light reveals Romano. 

I let out a shaky laugh of relief, eyes tearing up. "You came back."

He peeks around a corner. "Yeah, don't thank me yet...," he dismisses grimly.

It gets harder and harder to keep up with him, but I try my best, clutching him as tightly as I dare. The excitement of the escape and the exertion leaves me wheezing. "What's wrong with you?" he asks sternly.

"Broken rib, punctured lung, surgery," I explain, gasping. "And I think I died? I'm okay, though—I'm okay, keep going...."

He pushes me suddenly into a room, closing the door slightly behind us, and he watches the hallway. A pair of soldiers leisurely walks past, chatting in Italian.

A thought occurs to me, freezing me in place. "My sister," I protest. "She's here—she has to come with us!"

"We don't have time!" he hisses at me.

He tries to get me to walk again, but I pull away, putting pressure on my aching ribs. "I'm not—leaving—without her," I manage breathlessly.

"Hey, I am putting my ass on the line for you!" he scolds, trying to yank me forward. "Now  _do what I say_!"

"I need her—I need to know she's safe!" I protest. "Please—once they realize I'm gone, they're going to hurt her!"

" _Damn it_!" he exclaims, kicking the wall. " _Fine_! Come on."

"Thank you," I whisper, allowing him back in my personal space.

Moving is agony. We're only power-walking, but by the way I'm breathing, I might as well be running a marathon.

"It's this one," he stops. The door is big and wooden. There's no keyhole, but there's a big sliding lock on the outside, trapping its occupants in. He unlocks it and swings it open. The room behind it is small and concrete—a cell. There's two cots in here, and Josh and Renae stand against the back wall, looking nervous. Then both of their faces crack into a smile, and then rush at me.

I let go of Romano to embrace the two. "Issa! Are you okay?!" Josh asks me, drawing back to protectively cup my face. I nod, laughing in relief and pressing my forehead against his. It's an intimate gesture, but I'm so tired and happy that I don't care.

"Come on—come on, we gotta go," I manage, grabbing both of them.

"What?" Josh asks. I forgot that I'm not speaking English anymore. I just shake my head, coaxing them forward. I have to lean on Josh, still panting desperately. "Oh, man—you're really hurt...."

"She said she had trouble breathing, but she didn't say why," Renae pipes up, taking my hand. I nod, confirming her statement, and I gently tap my chest, showing them where it hurts.

"Your—your ribs? Are they broken?" Josh guesses. I nod, sweating and gasping.

"Him, too?" Romano barks. I nod, and he groans impatiently. "Fine. Whatever."

"We gotta go," I insist, still walking. Romano cusses again, grabbing Josh's arm and leading him out.

"Issa—what are you saying? I can't understand you!" Renae asks, tugging on my hospital gown. I shake my head at her, too out of breath to try to explain.

It takes a long time of what seems like aimless wandering through the corridors of this building before we make it outside. Romano unlocks a sleek sports car. Luckily, there are four seats instead of two. "Get in," he tells us. I slide in back with Renae, leaving Josh to nervously sink into the passenger seat.

"Where—?" I let out a grunt of pain, still struggling for air. "Where are we going?"

"That's the problem! I dunno!" he snaps at me, zooming forward nonetheless. "Can't go home—that's the first place they'll look! I'd go to Antonio's, but I bet they'd look there, too! Maybe—no, he wouldn't...Ugh, maybe...." He mutters to himself, brainstorming aloud as he pulls the car onto the freeway.

I can't show it, but I'm terrified to be in a vehicle again. I make myself put on the seat belt, even though it really,  _really_  hurts—it probably saved my life a few days ago....

I wrap my arm protectively around Renae as she sobs. "Is it over?" she whimpers. I can't answer her, but I stroke her hair, trying to comfort her wordlessly.

Romano grumbles cuss words as he keeps driving, obviously not happy with where he's going. "Hold on," he warns me. I nod and grab Renae tighter, and I reach into the front seat to grab a handful of Josh's shirt. He puts his hand over mine, maybe to question me.

Romano teleports. I squeeze my eyes shut, still uncomfortable with the whole process. I feel Josh tighten his grip on my hand in alarm, and Renae shrieks.

When the world spirals back into focus, we're surrounded by evergreen trees and thick blankets of snow, and I gasp in horror. " _Tell_ me you're not taking us to Germany," I plead.

"Good guess, but no," he growls, his knuckles going white on the steering wheel. Looking at me curiously through the rear-view mirror, "Why aren't you freaking out like they are?" nodding towards Renae and Josh, who both seem too shocked to do much.

"I've teleported before," I inform him. "With England and America."

He slams on the breaks. I let out a whine of pain as the seat belt digs into my chest. "How the  _hell_  do you know about them?!"

"It's a long story," I wheeze.

He isn't happy with my vague answer, but, then again, he isn't happy with anything. So, he starts driving again, mumbling to himself angrily, changing voices as he mocks the others. "'Let's kidnap a bunch of humans!' 'Oh, boy, what a flipping  _great_  idea! While we're at it, why don't we terrorize them for  _fun_!'"

He turns into a long gravel driveway, sighing in frustration as he parks it close to a palatial mansion. "Come on," he grumbles, getting out.

I move first, prompting Renae and Josh to do the same. I'm  _freezing_ —I'm wearing nothing except for the thin gown. The small rocks dig slightly into my bare feet. I'm not sure which bothers me more—that, or the cold. Or the immense pain I'm still in.

Romano pounds his fist against the giant doors. Eventually it opens. I blink rapidly as I stare at the man inside—black hair slicked back, deep indigo eyes shining behind rectangular glasses, a mole decorating his face.

Our savior scowls fiercely, but he tells Austria, "I need a favor." 


	8. Haven

"I need a favor," Romano growls at Austria.

He blinks, face expressionless. His gaze travels from him to the three of us shivering in the background. "Uh," he manages, confused.

Romano grabs Josh's arm and drags him forward, and Josh drags me, and I drag Renae. He walks us in the house, ignoring how Austria sputters indignantly. "Look, asshole," he snarls, "my brother and his stupid friends are up to something, and I'm gonna find out what. Except, for some damn reason, they go out and kidnap a bunch of kids. Just—watch them until I figure out what to do."

"Hey! Wait a minute!" Austria protests. "You can't just—."

"I'll owe you," he offers, not looking happy about it.

The former sighs impatiently. "You don't even have to watch us," I manage, still gasping for air. "Just call America or Canada and have them pick us up." I don't know why the thought didn't occur to me sooner.

"Wait—how do you— ?"

I shake my head, dismissing his question. "Long story."

I feel Josh's breath tickle my ear as he leans in and whispers desperately, "Issa, what's going on? Are these guys— ... are they...?"

I nod at him, shivering as I feel cold sweat drip down my back. "It's okay," I assure him, even though I know he can't understand me.

Austria sighs again. "She's hurt," he notices.

"Yeah, I don't know how," Romano ponders, crossing his arms.

"C—car crash. Th—they just put me through surgery, like, yesterday," I wheeze, closing my eyes as I try to breathe.

"Sit down," he invites, gesturing to the couch. I pull Josh and Renae towards it, nearly collapsing.

"Issa— talk to me!" Renae begs, squeezing my hand. "Where are we— who are these guys? What's going on?"

"It's okay— it's okay," I repeat. Black spots dance in my vision, and I press a hand against my forehead, trying hard not to pass out. As exhausted as I am, I can't just faint and leave them like that.

Romano cusses as his cell phone rings. Answering it, "What do you want? How the hell am  _I_  supposed to know? No, I— I'm— ya know what? I don't have to tell you anything! You're not the boss of me! No— no,  _listen_ —No,  _you_  go to hell!" He angrily hangs up, shoving the phone back in his pocket. "They know you're gone."

"Thank you so much," I manage, my eyes tearing up again. "You have  _no idea_  how much this means to me—."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," he dismisses, waving his hand nonchalantly. "I gotta go. Don't push yourself too hard."

"Th— thanks!" I call again as he stomps out, leaving us alone with Austria, who looks just as uncomfortable with this whole situation as we are.

He sighs. "Don't mind him.... He's always been that way...." Frowning at me, "Are you going to be okay?"

I nod, then shake my head, and then shrug. "I— I dunno. C— can you call America?"

"Um. Sure. Wait here." He exits the room, confused.

I sigh in relief, leaning against Josh's shoulder. Noticing my shallow breaths, "What happened to you?"

"I— I was— oh. Um." They don't understand me, and, no matter how hard I try, I can't make myself speak English. I try to sound out the syllables of the words I want to say, but as soon as my brain realizes what I'm trying to say, it slips out in Japanese. It's  _really_  annoying. So, I sit up slightly to look at him, and I hold up two fingers.

"Uh...." Something clicks with him, and he goes, "Charades?" When I nod, "Okay, um... two words. First word...." I mime turning a steering wheel. "...Drive? Car?" I nod. Then, holding my left arm straight out, I collide my right hand into it, trying to mimic the sound of screeching tires. "...Crash? Car crash?" I nod again. "Oh, no.... Are you okay?"

I point at my chest. "Broken ribs.... Just one? Okay, broken  _rib_ , singular...." I take his hand and run his fingers over the bump of the bandage on my chest. "Got some cuts under there?" he guesses. I'm not sure he understands that it was surgery, but he's not wrong, so I nod. Then, I tap my skull. "Hit your head? So—concussion? Ah, ouch. Something with your shoulder? Not broken, right? Hm. Sprained? Dislocated?" I nod at his second guess. Then, I trace the shallow scrape on my hairline, and I pull up the hem of the hospital gown just enough to reveal the wounds in my thigh. "Ouch," he winces. He deflates slightly, taking both of my hands in his. "And... these?" The adhesive bandages they put on my wrists are still there, so he can't actually see the cuts, but it's pretty obvious why they're there.

I look away. I have a good reason, I think. I wasn't trying to kill myself just for the sake of killing myself— the world really would be better off without me, and that's a fact, not an opinion. And I would explain that to him, but I  _can't_. So, I just shake my head. "...You don't want to talk about it?" I nod. "...Okay; I won't push right now. But... I'd like an answer sometime later, okay?" I nod again, trying to smile at him. I forgot to tell him about how my heart stopped and how they needed to restart it, but he's already upset from this other time I almost died, so I don't bring it up.

 I try to wrap my arm around Renae, but she pulls away, refusing to look at me. I'm hurt, but I know my sister—she needs space. Instead, I lean against Josh again, closing my eyes. 

"Hey—," he protests after a minute. "Don't sleep.... I—I don't know what to do— I can't talk to this guy.... Are—...are you sure he's gonna help us?" I sit up and rub at my eyes, and I nod, even though I'm not quite sure. Romano just pushed us on Austria without taking no for an answer. I'm probably the only reason he didn't insist on denying us refuge—he felt sorry for me and my injuries. 

Eventually, though, my head falls back on his shoulder. He insists again that I stay awake. "'M tired," I mumble. As eternally grateful I am to Romano for helping us, I think he pushed my fragile body too hard. The adrenaline I felt as we escaped has ebbed completely away, leaving me thoroughly drained. Everything hurts. Everything hurts so much.

I feel Josh's chest stop moving for a second. He gasps, I think. In a low, trembling voice, he informs me, "Issa, there's someone here...."

I weakly raise my eyelids, and my heart flutters for a second as I wonder if it's Germany. But it's not. The woman standing stunned across the room has brown hair, clipped away from her face with flower barrettes. She's wearing a light blue sweater over olive colored jeans, and it looks like she only has socks on her feet. Hungary.

Immediately, she jumps into a concerned frenzy, jogging towards us. I feel Renae press against my side. Josh tightens his hold on me. "S—stay back," he orders. I imagine he's trying to look brave.

"She's hurt," I hear Hungary say. Josh wraps his other arm around me and kicks at her. "It's okay. I'm just going to help."

But Josh refuses to let her near me. Through the haze of pain, I'm touched that he's trying so hard to protect me. He doesn't understand that Hungary's intentions aren't malicious, though, so I rest my hand on his sternum, whispering, "It's okay."

But he still doesn't know what I'm saying, or maybe my voice is too feeble for him to register. I don't care anymore, though. I let my eyes shut.

I doze off, too tired to really pay attention to what's happening anymore. I'm not fully asleep though —I still hear their voices, and I still feel Josh and Renae both clutching at me protectively. It isn't until I hear voices I recognize that I really try to keep myself awake.

"Don't touch her— don't touch her!" "It's okay, man, she's hurt—we're just gonna help." "Oh my God—oh my God, she's bleeding—what's wrong with her?!" "Just let us check her, okay? We're gonna help." 

Josh loosens his hold on me, but I feel someone else moving in for an embrace. No— they're picking me up. I smell leather and coffee, and soft fluff tickles my nose. I struggle to open my eyes, and when I do, I see America. "Hey, there, kiddo," he greets me gently.

I weakly smile at him. "Hi."

"Don't talk," he says, and I nod slightly. He puts me down on a cot.

"She's awake?" Hungary asks. I don't bother looking around to see where she's at. I trust her. Or maybe I'm too tired to be suspicious.

"Barely."

I whine feebly in protest as I feel her lift up the bottom of the hospital gown, and I lift up my hand to try to stop her when she starts to peel back the adhesive bandage covering the wounds on my chest. Someone catches my hand, holds it. "It's okay, Issa. Don't move too much." I turn my head to see who it is, and I smile when I see Canada. I think he understands that the slight twitch in my fingers is my attempt to squeeze his hand.

"Just like I thought," Hungary says. "Broken stitches. Looks like they performed a surgery on her." In her hand, the bandage is covered in red splotches. I think I feel warm liquid trickling down my side. Ouch.

Canada's brows knit together. "For what?"

"Ribs," I manage. "Lung."

"Punctured?" I nod at his assumption. He lets go of me to adjust the head of the cot, propping it up so I can breathe better. Canada smooths my bangs back, probably to check on the gash on my hairline, but his frown deepens. "She's burning up." Sighing slightly, he realizes there's not much to do for a fever except for cold medicine and time, so he seems to move on with the check-up.

I feel Hungary start to stitch me back up. "There's a nasty bruise on her forehead —check for concussion."

I already know that I have a concussion, but I'm too tired to tell them that, so I weakly cooperate with the test until he confirms it. "She seemed coherent to me. Let's let her sleep."

Hungary finishes the stitches and moves on, noticing the cuts on my thigh. I whimper involuntarily at her touch, noticing again that I'm not wearing underwear.

Canada leans in, putting his ear in front of my face. "What's that?"

"I want pants," I manage.

"I can make that happen," he answers. He walks to the corner, where I notice my duffel bag. Someone must have tossed it to the side when they brought me in here. He retrieves my sweatpants, and Hungary helps him slip my legs into the garment. Perfect. They're loose enough that they don't press against the cuts. "You're safe, now, Issa," Canada reminds me, taking my hand again. "Go to sleep."

Still, I turn my head towards the door. "Renae —Josh...." I have to repeat myself for him to understand.

"They're okay. Just go to sleep, and we'll all be here when you wake up. Okay?"

I nod again, giving him a feeble smile. "Okay...."

I'm already struggling to stay awake, so, when given permission, I'm unconscious by the time my eyes close.

 

 

When I wake up, I just lie there, unwilling to open my eyes. I don't bother moving because I know I'm chained down. If I pretend to be asleep, they'll leave me alone.

With a start, I realize someone has an arm wrapped around my waist. The only person I expect to touch me so casually and intimately is Hughes, and I involuntarily twitch away.

Then I notice it— I'm not tied up.

Blearily forcing open my eyes, I see that my sister is the one cuddling me. She's skinny enough to fit on the small cot with me. Renae doesn't notice my movement, and she stays asleep, her face pressed against my hip.

I deeply relax, slowly bringing my hands up to rub the sleep out of my eyes. They took off my glasses. I notice them on the bedside table next to me, though, so I put them on. I don't think I was allowed to wear my glasses at all while I was in Venice. I like being able to see.

Looking to my right, I notice the other cot positioned close to mine, much closer than the spacing between other cots in the room. Lying on it, slumbering peacefully, is Josh. He's lying on his side so he faces me, and his arm is extended so that his hand is on my bed. It looks like he fell asleep holding my hand.

I feel myself smile. I'm so relieved we're all safe. Wiping my face clean of the happy tears that had started to form, I slip my hand back under his, lacing our fingers together.

That wakes him up, though. He doesn't snap back to consciousness, so the soft hand touch must not alarm him. Instead, his thumb runs back and forth over my finger for a while before he opens his eyes.

Josh's eyes slowly focus on me, and he smiles tiredly. "Hey." His voice cracks with fatigue. "Where's Renae?" He props himself up, notices her curled up at my side, and relaxes.

I frown suddenly, moving my hand out of his so I can touch his face. I hadn't noticed it without my glasses, but Josh has a vertical cut on his forehead, just above his left eye. It's about an inch long, and two little black strings hold it closed.

"Oh," he says, reaching up to feel the skin around it. "Yeah. Ludwig —Germany —whichever name you prefer — he, uh. He threw me, and I landed on my head. I think it was a rock that cut me." He sees my face fall even more, and he adds, "It doesn't hurt that bad...."

I sit up slightly to look at Renae. "She's not hurt," Josh offers. "I don't think it was the countries' idea to take her —they were almost never there, and it was Hughes who brought her in." My hands curl into fists when I hear that name. Josh doesn't notice that, but he doesn't say anything else for a long time. Finally, "...I feel...really selfish for thinking this, but... I was really glad for her company. I might've gone crazy by myself.... I mean, I'm definitely not glad that this happened to her, but...."

I nod, trying to tell him that I understand. I was also grateful for his company the first few days in Berlin, but I would've preferred that we met under different circumstances.

I pull away from him, putting one hand on my aching forehead and letting the other protectively cover the new bandage over my chest. The morphine that the doctors had me on in Venice has worn off, and I'm definitely feeling the pain now. I don't know if it helps or not that my concussion makes everything fuzzy and slow. I haven't had much of a chance to move around much at all, but I notice that my motor skills aren't as sharp as they should be.

Josh seems to notice. "Do you want me to get someone?" I glance at him and shrug. All I really want to do is sleep some more. I'm not really keen on being awake. He gets up anyway, stopping slightly to stroke Renae's hair, which she doesn't notice. She's always been a deep sleeper.

He peeks out of the door to this room, which looks like an infirmary to me. Josh seems hesitant to leave, actually. I'm not surprised that he's so timid. It's been, like, two weeks since this all started, and he was in danger the entire time. I had a little bit of a cool-off time with the countries.

Josh returns with Canada. "Hey, Issa. How're you feeling, eh?"

"I've been better." I can tell immediately that he's walking on eggshells around me. That's kind of annoying, actually. I'm ready to stop feeling sad and scared all the time, and he's kind of bringing down the mood. I don't want to feel like a glass doll.

"Here's some painkillers," he offers, starting to set up what looks like a morphine drip.

Morphine is some  _good_  stuff. It erased almost all of my pain. Or, at least, it dulled it down so I could sleep. But, still — "I —um. I'm kind of done with needles, if you don't mind...."

He nods. "Understandable. Let's see what else Austria has hidden in here...." Canada opens a cabinet and shifts through the bottles of pills until he pulls one out. "Ah ha! Hydrocodone."

"The stuff dentists give you when they take out your wisdom teeth," I remember. One of Mom's doctor friends has a daughter who needed hers removed, but he wasn't able to take her to the appointment because of work —he got called in last-minute, so he asked Mom to take her and bring her home. It was kind of funny to watch how disoriented she was after the procedure; she kept mumbling that there was something in the Constitution about it being illegal to steal someone's teeth. But I remember Mom explaining what hydrocodone is.

"Yeah, it'll do the trick," Canada confirms. He hands me two small capsules and a cup of water, and I take them. "So. You're only speaking Japanese."

I nod, leaning back against the cot. "Japan did something to me. It was like some sort of ray gun, but it.... He said he scrambled my neurotransmitters? Said it would be easier to communicate."

He nods, seeming to be thinking. "That's some impressive technology." 

"It had some bugs," I say bitterly. "They said it made my brain swell, and my heart stopped for a few minutes. They had to use a defibrillator."

"Yikes," he says, wincing. "And you're—."

"They checked me and everything. I don't think it'll kill me." I sigh and wipe my running nose, and I instinctively check my hand for blood. There's none, thankfully. "Easier to communicate with  _them_ ," I add sourly. "Not to people I  _want_  to communicate with. Like my sister. Or Josh, or Zack —Oh, man —Is Zack here? Is he okay?"

"Yeah, Zack's here. He's sleeping now because of the jetlag. He's really upset about what happened, though...."

"It wasn't his fault," I insist. "I'm not mad at him."

Canada nods. "I'll let him know that when he wakes up." I'm so used to people touching me that I don't flinch when he puts his hand on my forehead. "Still hot," he comments. He gets up again to get some medicine and more water, since I drank all of the first cup.

"Had this fever for a while now," I tell him. "Ever since...." My voice trails off, and I pull my hands on my lap guiltily.

"Yeah. Been meaning to talk to you about that." I'm glad that he doesn't try to hold my hand.

Trying to delay the inevitable, "I —I think I'm sick because they used the wrong type of blood to revive me. I mean, I don't know what they used —I never asked. But my antibodies are definitely working against it, so it must be the wrong type."

"Why'd you do it?" he asks softly.

My chin trembles slightly, and I push back tears. My words are shaky and quiet. "You know why."

"Issa, there were options. You didn't have t—."

I interrupt. " _What_  options? Sit around helplessly until I was strong enough for them to take my blood?" I shake my head. "I'm not sorry."

"We were close," he insists. "Just a few more days before we would've figured out where you were."

"It  _was_  a few days! I did this the third or fourth day I was there, and it's been a few days since then!" I look away slightly. "You don't even know where we were, do you?"

Canada hesitates, and I know I'm right. "We were close," he tries.

"They took us to Venice," I say. "How close were you?"

"We knew it was in one of their countries."

"Well, yeah, that's obvious."

"Issa —."

I cut him off again. "Listen— I'm really just a liability, okay? I'm too dangerous to be alive. No, don't try to deny it," when he opens his mouth again. "And I'm  _so useless_. I couldn't even manage to  _kill_  myself. And I dragged Josh and Renae into this— honestly, I —I shouldn't —." My voice breaks off in a quiet sob.

"Don't think like that," he scolds me gently.

"I was so  _scared_ ," I admit, crying. " _He_  was there. Th —they didn't fire him. Th —the only reason he didn't r —rape me again is because of h —how hurt I am. So when I didn't behave, he took it out on  _Renae!"_ My sister shifts slightly, and I freeze, not wanting her to wake up and see me so upset. "They  _all_  hurt me  _so bad_ ," I continue in a quieter voice, trying to stop crying. "I  _wanted_  to kill myself." Giving a small, bitter laugh, "A win-win situation, huh? I get to die, and they don't get to blow anyone up."

"What about your family?" Canada tries.

I sigh, looking away again. "They'd be sad, but... life goes on, y'know?"

"What about Renae and Josh? You really think they would've just... let them go?" Josh looks up at his name, but Canada doesn't explain anything to him. 

"I don't see why they wouldn't have. There's no use in killing them."

"No use in keeping them alive, either." He tries to catch my gaze, but I keep avoiding him. "And, even if they let Renae go, what if they decided to go back to their first plan? You technically weren't a part of it. They would've kept Josh."

I sigh again. Of course I wouldn't wish that upon him, but at least they wouldn't be able to literally blow up whole countries. Instead, shaking my head a little bit, I whisper again, "I'm not sorry."

I guess he decides there's no use arguing with me. "...So, you said there's something wrong with your ribs and your lung."

I wipe my eyes. "Yeah. The second floating one from the bottom of my right side broke completely off and punctured my lung. But they went in a few days ago and, like, welded it back together. And I needed stitches in my leg and on my forehead, and I have a concussion. They said I was bleeding internally, which I guess is to be expected when a lung gets stabbed. Oh, and it dislocated my shoulder, but they popped it back into place, so it doesn't really hurt unless I move it around. And I'm burned where he used the defibrillator."

"We went looking for you guys after you didn't come back. Called England's cell phone a bunch of times, but he never answered. Then we found his car upside-down on the side of the road, so we looked for you in all the hospitals in DC, but when you weren't there, we could only assume... they got you again."

I nod. "I don't know what they did to England. I saw him right before they put me under for surgery, and he didn't look great."

"What happened, exactly?"

"They drove their car into ours. They had a truck, and we had England's tiny old granny-wagon, so of course it flipped us a few times."

My gaze snaps to the door when it clicks open. It's Austria. "Good. You're awake."

I don't really know what to make of him. From his rigid posture and how he keeps his arms securely at his side, I can tell that he's uncomfortable but trying to hide it. If he were really nervous, he would try to create a barrier between him and I. It doesn't look like he's angry.... But I can see tension in his hands. They're not quite curled into fists, but it would be easy to change that. His body language just screams, "I don't want you here."

Realizing I've spent too much time studying him, I nod and shakily answer, "Th —thank you for helping us." From the anime, I know that Austria thinks highly of himself. Maybe I should play to his ego to stay on his good side. "It was very kind of you, and much appreciated."

He nods to acknowledge me. "Now. You and America," he's speaking to Canada now, "filled me in on the gist of the situation: Germany, Japan, and Italy are up to no good again. However, you don't know why they abducted the elder Miss Pryce or Mr. Davies or any of those other children of which you spoke, correct?"

"Yes," Canada confirms.

"But it appears that they injured you," he's talking to me again, "and England, and then abducted the pair of you. You were their main target, I presume?"

"I —I think so, yes. I don't know what they could've wanted from England. I —I guess he was just... an easy grab, and they couldn't resist."

He steeples his fingers in front of his face, still tense in posture. "That leaves two questions that only you can answer, Miss Pryce."

I know I'm being rude, but I can't stop myself. "Please don't call me Miss Pryce," I say hurriedly. Hoping he won't be too mad at me for interrupting him, "It —it's just —th —that's what he called me, a —and it —... brings back too many bad memories." My last statement is strained, and I'm worried that he didn't hear me and that I'd have to repeat it. I'd surely start crying.

Austria raises an eyebrow. "That's what who called you?"

Canada senses my distress and holds my hand. He answers for me, in a whisper so as not to upset me even more.

"I see. Should we be concerned with a pregnancy?"

I'll have to answer this myself, seeing as Canada doesn't know. "No. My cycle started and ended last week, while I was still in Venice."  _That's_  definitely not something I want to reminisce about, the soldiers and attendants changing my pads. Very embarrassing, both for me and for them. Luckily, it only lasted for two days, which is very light for me, but due to my injuries, not so surprising. I'm just glad it happened at all.

"What should I call you, then?"

"Isabella. Or, my nickname is Issa." Ducking my head a little bit, I add meekly, "Thank you for understanding."

"So, Isabella," he starts again, back to business, "my first question. Who is the country with whom you first had physical contact?"

"Oh. Um." I didn't expect that. "...Germany, probably? Back at school, in the hallway —he touched my shoulder to get my attention. Why?"

Austria's perpetual frown deepens, and he taps his thumb against his chin. "That's what I was afraid of...."

"What's that have to do with anything?" Canada asks, squeezing my hand.

"Haven't you heard the legend?"

"Well, yeah. Every once in a few centuries, one human will have blood that can be detonated."

"That's not all of it." Austria begins to pace. "It's true that one mortal will have blood that will explode, but it will only do so with the correct ingredients."

"...Just a country's blood isn't enough?"

"No. It has to be the blood of the first country with whom they made physical contact with."

I squeeze Canada's hand. "Didn't you test the sample you took from me?"

He shakes his head. "No, I let America do that. He's more science-y than me."

"Fetch him, please," Austria commands, waving a dismissive hand towards the door. I wouldn't like being bossed around like that, but Canada leaves without question. I spend a few awkward minutes alone in the room with the uptight nation. Well, Renae is here too, and Josh, but she's asleep and he can't understand anything. Josh has given Austria a wide girth, pretending to be very interested in what looks like medical books in a bookshelf across the room.

Canada returns with America. "Yeah, I tested it," he confirms when asked. "Hey, Issa, how're you feeling?"

I smile at him, but before I can answer, Austria interrupts. "And?"

"Well, here's the thing." America sits on a cot, pulling his legs up to cross them. "There's  _definitely_  something weird about her blood. It's.... It's  _acidic_. It's got a pH balance of about 6, give or take half a point." Noticing my confused expression, "Blood's supposed to have a pH of 7, like water —not an acid, but not a base, either. And yours is an acid. A  _weak_  acid, sure, but still an acid."

"Shouldn't that... hurt?" All the countries' eyes turn to me.

"...I don't know. No. I'm not usually in pain." I shrug helplessly.

"Maybe take a tissue sample," Austria suggests in a way that sounds like an order. "If her blood is acidic, it  _should_  be slowly dissolving her flesh from the inside."

"Yikes, dude," America protests. "You can't just say something like that! Not in front of her! She's already super scared!"

"Honestly, learning that I'm slowly dissolving wouldn't be the freakiest thing that's happened to me this week," I pipe up. Since America and Canada are here, and this news is pretty distressing, I forget about acting polite. "Life is already so damn weird that this  _might as well_  happen, y'know? Tomorrow, you'll start telling me things like, oh, I dunno, a Xenomorph is gonna pop out of my chest or something."

My sudden switch between meek child to mouthy teenager seems to surprise them, and nobody says anything for a few minutes. Then, I hear Austria ask, "What's a Xenomorph?"

America snorts with laughter. "I gotta show you Alien. You'll love it."

"No he won't, Al," Canada interjects sternly.

"Whatever. Anyway, I guess I can do a biopsy to get a tissue sample."

My mouthy teenager side fades again, letting my meek child side return. "...Will that hurt?"

America scratches the side of his head. "...Kinda. I mean, I'll have to take out a chunk of your skin." I sigh quietly and look away, knowing that I have no choice in the matter. "Hey," he says gently, "I'll just take some from a place that's already hurt. No new scars. And it's not like we won't numb you first."

"Right now?" I ask, not really reassured.

"No, I guess it can wait, if it's not hurting you." A thought seems to occur to him. "Oh, yeah —here's the point I was trying to get at. Her blood is weird. Definitely not normal. But, no matter what I did to it, I couldn't make it explode. I added my blood, I added Canada's blood, nothing. It would sizzle a bit, but not even a  _little_ explosion."

"Like I said earlier," Austria says. "It has to be the blood of the first country who touched her. Which, she said, is Germany."

"But they probably don't have much, if any," I supply. "I was too hurt for them to take any the first few days I was there, and then I...," my eyes fall back to my wrists, "...tried to waste as much of it as possible."

Canada reaches for my hand again. "You don't need to martyr yourself, Issa."

"I was trying to do what's right," I answer, my tone steely. "Drop it."

"My second question," Austria announces, drawing the room's attention back to him. "Why did Romano bring you here, of all places?"

"He, uh. He was trying to think of a place to bring us where they wouldn't find us. He said they'd probably check his place first, and then Antonio's —Spain's —because they'll probably know it was him, and they'll search the most likely places. He doesn't seem to like you all that much, so I guess they'll think there's no way he'd ever ask you for help."

Austria scowls. "Of course."

America speaks up. "Issa, you said you tried to waste as much of your blood as possible. How much did you lose?"

"Enough to make me pass out," I answer. "Two-ish pints, maybe."

"And you're not doing so great with the blood they gave you. You're not gonna get better until your body starts making its own blood again, and there's no telling how long that's gonna take. I was wondering if maybe your body would recognize family DNA."

I realize he's looking at Renae. "She's got anemia." She was born prematurely, leaving her to deal with some health issues.

"Damn." America crosses his arms. "Dealbreaker."

"You could get my mom," I suggest. I really, really miss her, and there's no doubt that she's devastated that both of her daughters are missing.

"That might work," he ponders.

"Oh, but she probably won't come willingly. She's not very trusting, and I bet even more so, now." Laying a gentle hand on my sister's head, "Maybe take Renae with you." Stroking her hair a little bit, I add, "When she wakes up. I think she could use the rest."

"So could you," Canada says, gently touching my shoulder.

"I  _am_  resting. Look at me, laying down and everything." Rubbing my eyes again, "I'm  _tired_  of resting. I'm tired of being hurt."

"I get it," he answers. "But it's for your own good."

"I know," I grumble, but I still don't like it. America and Austria leave.

Renae stirs, pressing her face closer to my hip. "Hey, cutie," I tell her.

"What?" she mumbles, raising her head a little bit.

"She said hi," Canada translates. Oh, right. I really hate that I can't speak English anymore.

"...You lied to me," she accuses, and she sits up. Hesitating a little bit, she furrows her brows. "You said you only had a couple of scratches, but it's a lot worse than that."

"Renae—," I try, but she interrupts me.

"Then you could barely walk, a—and you  _fainted_ , and you were bleeding everywhere, and—," her voice cracks. "And I was s—so  _scared_!" she wails, crying. "I thought you were  _dying_! I thought I'd  _lose you!_ "

"I'm sorry," I answer, my own tears starting again. "I didn't want you to worry about me...."

Canada translates, but my words don't cheer her up. "I've  _been_  worried about you! Ever since this started, I spent all my time praying that you would come home!" She scoots up the bed and throws her arms around my neck, barely managing not to touch any of my injuries. I earnestly return the hug. "You're my best friend, Issa.... I don't want to lose you...."

I don't say anything, too overwhelmed with guilt. Behind her back, I run my thumbs over the bandages on my wrists.

Canada awkwardly sits there, like he wants to give us space, but he realizes he should be here to translate anything I might say. After a few minutes, he says quietly, "Renae, we could use your help to make Issa better." She rubs her nose and looks up at him. "We need to go get your mom, and we want you to convince her it's safe."

She nods, still sniffling. "I can do that," she agrees. A thought seems to occur to her, and she reaches for her collar. She unclasps my leaf necklace and fastens it around my neck. Then she loops the chain of the locket around me, too. I had wondered what they did with them. "That's why I thought those guys were your friends. They had these." Looking back at Canada, "Are we going now?"

"Yeah, if that's okay with you." Renae nods and takes Canada's outstretched hand. She hesitates by the door and looks back at me, and I smile to try to reassure her.

They leave, and Josh comes back to his bed to awkwardly hover by me. He pretends he doesn't notice me trying to stop crying.

Eventually, the door cracks open. Zack hesitantly peeks in, stopping when he sees me. I wipe my nose and smile, trying to make him feel better. He comes in, stopping a couple feet away from my bed. "Hi," I say, hoping that that's a universal statement.

He smiles weakly in response, but it falls away quickly as he scans over me. "I'm so sorry," he manages. "This is all my fault."

I shake my head. I  _really_  wish I could talk to him. Instead, I beckon him closer, until he's in range for me to wrap my arms around him. He's stiff for a second, but he eventually melts into my hug. "I don't deserve this," I hear him whisper.

I pull back, giving him an affronted look, and I lightly slap his face. "What? Don't try to deny it! If I hadn't kissed you, you wouldn't've gotten upset, and you and England wouldn't've been out there that night! It's true!"

"They would've found a way to get to me eventually," I tell him, even though my words are nonsense to him.

He can't answer me. Instead, he plops in the chair Canada had been using. "Are you Josh?" he asks after a while.

"Hm?" he asks. "Oh. Yeah. That's me. Hello."

"Glad to know you're okay," he says. "Issa was really worried about you."

"Sweet of you," he tells me, giving me a slight nudge. I smile at him. "And you're...Zack, right?"

"Yeah." He looks down. "The jackass who can't read body language." I smack him again, a little bit harder, but not enough to hurt him. "What?! All the signs were there, but I still—ugh. You didn't like to be touched without permission, you kept changing the subject when I asked about your lip—and the  _limping_ —I  _should've guessed_. But I  _didn't_ , and I basically assaulted you,  _just_  like that guy did, and—."

All three of us flinch as the door slams open. "Issa?!" Mom exclaims, holding Renae's hand tightly.

"Mom!" I cry, trying to sit up. I notice that Zack and Josh cautiously move away, and Canada trails, feebly trying to calm her down. She's always had an intense "Mama Bear" complex when either Renae or I got hurt.

She sits on the edge of my bed and embraces me tightly. I yelp and struggle, and Canada interjects, "Dr. Pryce, her ribs."

She springs away from me. "Oh! I'm sorry!" Mom then starts to check me over, half in "doctor" mode and half in "concerned mother" mode, mumbling to herself. "Big bruise on the forehead with a laceration about two inches long—with a blow like that you probably have a concussion—yep, eyes slightly unfocused—cut on the cheek, healing nicely—."

"Dr. Pryce," Canada says, bringing her back to reality.

"Huh? Oh, right! Blood!" She sits and rolls up her sleeve. "I—I'm ready."

Canada sets it up. I've helped with blood drives at the hospital before, helping escort the donors to the snack table to make sure they don't pass out on the way there, so I've seen what giving blood looks like. Normally, there's a process—the medically inclined volunteers do a lot of things do make sure the donor is qualified to give. We don't have that luxury, so Canada starts immediately taking blood.

Hungary and America come in. America brought snacks. He opens a can of apple juice and hands it to Mom, who's starting to look dizzy and pale. She accepts it without question. Hungary starts making the same setup on the other side of me. She moves Josh's bed away to make room. "How are you feeling?" she asks, smiling.

"Better, thanks," I answer.

She rubs iodine on the inside of my elbow. "I'm going to take a pint of your blood, and then you'll have room for your mother's blood."

"Okay," I answer, looking at the needle warily. I wince as she pokes me with it. America hands me a can of apple juice, which I start sipping. He offers Renae one, too, which she accepts, just because she likes it.

"How did she lose that much blood in the first place? The crash?" Mom asks. "You said she only had a couple external scratches, a broken rib, punctured lung, and some internal bleeding. I'd say she'd lose maybe a pint, at the most."

I shoot Canada and America a " _please don't tell her_ " look, slowly hiding my wrists under the blanket.

They have a pint of her blood ready, so they take the needle out of her arm. After a few moments, Mom speaks, her voice low and shaky. "Issa, show me your hands."

I don't. Not even looking at her, I say, "Sorry, I don't speak English anymore," which earns a small chuckle from America. Canada elbows him, though. I know I shouldn't be joking right now, but that's the only way I can delay the inevitable next round of tears.

Mom grabs my forearm, trying to pull my arm into the open. I struggle against her, hurting the arm that has the needle in it. America jumps forward to separate us, but he's too late. Mom has ripped off the bandage, revealing the deep slice across my wrist.

I press my hand against my chest, protectively hiding the cut, and I pretend like I don't hear Mom sobbing hysterically. I'm crying, too, as hard as I'm able—the world is starting to blur again now that I'm down a pint of blood.

America starts to kind of drag Mom away. "C'mon, Dr. Pryce, let's take a walk. You gotta calm down." Even if he didn't have super-strength, she wouldn't be hard to overpower, now that she's been weakened.

But Mom's starting to scream. "DON'T YOU  _DARE_  TAKE MY DAUGHTER AWAY FROM ME! ISSA!  _ISSA!_ "

I can't make myself look at her. I can't make myself do anything other than weep. My tears are starting to slow, though, but that's because I'm starting to pass out. The can of apple juice I held loosely clatters to the floor. Hungary puts a cold towel on my forehead and tells me that I need to stay awake, but I don't want to.

Canada sits next to me and keeps poking me, trying to make sure I stay conscious. If I had the strength, I would blow up at him to make him leave me alone. Since I don't, I just mumble complaints every time he tries to talk to me.

I don't notice that Hungary switches the bags. She hangs the bag of Mom's blood on an IV pole, letting gravity help revive me. Canada pokes my lip with a straw, and I've spent enough time being helplessly weak to know the drill, so I take a sip. More apple juice. For an uncomfortably long time, I just lie there, still feebly crying, letting him raise my blood sugar with juice and Oreos.

The bag is about halfway empty when the door opens again, and Mom walks back in, still crying but looking a lot calmer. She makes an attempt at proper bedside manner. "Hey, sweetheart," she whispers, trying to smile at me. I try to smile back, but neither of us is very successful.

She reaches for my hand, but I pull it away. I don't want her to look at my scars. "Did you tell her about my blood?" I ask America, who hovers in the doorway. He nods. "Will you tell her I was trying to do the right thing?"

Canada obliges. Mom stifles a sob and sits down on my bed by my feet. Her hand hangs over my ankle, like she wants to give me a reassuring pat, but she's afraid I'll reject her again. Instead, returning her hand to her lap, "Weren't there other ways? Ways where they didn't get your blood, and you didn't have to—...do  _that_?" She gestures vaguely at my hand.

"No. I was running out of time—I don't know what I'd do if I was responsible for a literal apocalypse!"

"And  _I_  don't know what I'd do if I lost you for good!" Mom cries, putting her hand on my ankle. I let her.

"If they took my blood, you would've lost me  _and_  Renae! And Grandma and Grandpa, and everyone else you ever loved!" I wipe my eyes. "I love you  _so much_ , but I thought—...I th—thought.... I thought that, if I was gonna lose you either way... then I'd choose the way that ended with the least number of casualties."

Canada translates, and Mom doesn't answer for a long time. I'm startled when Hungary pulls the needle out of my arm; looks like I'm full of fresh blood. I throw her a grateful look, and she smiles at me. "I'm still alive," I point out. "I'm alive, and I'm safe, and I need a hug."

When Mom understands, she gives a watery laugh and leans down to embrace me. It hurts a little bit, but I don't dare let her go. Eventually, Renae hugs me from the other side. "We'll give you guys some space," Canada says. I smile at him in acknowledgement. Everybody eventually shuffles out, leaving us alone.

I missed them so much, and I'm not going to let them go any time soon.

 

My family and I fell asleep, all huddled in a little dog-pile on the cot. When I wake up, I actually feel better than I did. I must be responding to Mom's blood, which is good. What's also good is that I didn't have a nightmare— a rare blessing, nowadays. I've been having them every night, usually.

Even though I feel healthier, my heart races. The reason I woke up is because they slammed the door to the infirmary open. 

Canada, America, and Austria stumble in. As they come through the door, they struggle with carrying a limp body. They're arguing loudly.

"Well, what did you  _want_  me to do?!" America demands.

"I dunno! Maybe, uh,  _not_  punch him so hard he passes out?!" Canada flings back.

"You— two— aren't—  _helping_!" Austria huffs. He's been left to pretty much carry the unconscious guy by himself.

"What's happening?" Mom asks, propping herself up. Renae does the same, sleepily rubbing her eyes.

"Is that  _England_?!" I ask, sitting in concern. I don't need to hear their answer to know that it  _is_. He's hanging from Austria's grasp, his head lolling to the side as he drags him through the foyer. He's asleep— just as he was when I last saw him.

"Dude— he was  _flipping out_ ," America tells me, pointing an accusatory finger back at him.

"So you  _hit_  him?!"

" _He_  was attacking  _me_!" he protests, his voice rising an octave as he defends his actions. "We show up— he takes one look at us and just  _screams_! We're trying to get him to calm down, and the next thing I know— he's got a knife— he's trying to  _stab me_! So,  _yeah_! I hit him!"

"I don't think he was in his right mind," Canada muses.

Austria sighs and drops the country, letting him flop harshly to the carpet. When we all stare at him, he gripes, "He's heavy!"

They set England on a different cot, and Hungary leans over him to check his vitals. "It's Arthur," Canada explains grimly to Mom and Renae. "He was with Issa when they crashed."

"Is he okay? Can I help with anything?" She gets up, concerned.

"No, thank you, Dr. Pryce," he dismisses. "He's— .... I think they...  _did_  something to him... to his  _mind_.... This isn't something surgery can fix, I think...."

For a second, we all just watch his limp form. He breathes deeply, seeming content in his slumber. After a few minutes, he scrunches his nose, slowly bringing a fist to his face to rub sleep out of his eyes with his knuckle. He blinks, and he sees all of us standing around staring at him. He blinks again.

Then, before we can do anything, England opens his mouth and lets out a bloodcurdling scream.

" _WHO ARE YOU_?!" he shrieks fiercely. " _WHERE AM I_?!" He sits up and scuttles backwards, away from all of us, but he falls off the edge of the cot. "Ow!" He jumps back up, and he charges at the closest person.

"Uh-oh!" America exclaims, and he steps out of his way. Then he goes up to the feral nation and socks him in the jaw. England crumples, knocked out again. We stare at them in disbelief. "What?! He was freaking me out!"

I look sadly at England. He looks so vulnerable in his unconscious state, so weak. What did they  _do_  to him?! He didn't recognize  _any_  of us! I'm a little sad he didn't recognize me— I've looked up to him so much these last two weeks. He means a lot to me, so it disappoints me that he doesn't seem to share the same feeling. But he didn't even know the people with whom he's spent thousands of years with, so it makes sense that he wouldn't recognize someone he's known for less than two weeks.

Hungary sighs again. "Let's get him back on the bed." The countries do that. She ties him down, this time. A necessary precaution, considering how panicked he was. Now that I've gotten a closer look at him, I realize he's not as healthy as he looked upon my first inspection. He's very pale. There are bruises on his face and neck, older than the ones that America just inflicted. Plus, there are shallow cuts and red marks on his wrists, like he was struggling against shackles. What did they do to him?

"Who was  _that_?!" Renae asks. "Not Josh, right?"

"Not Josh," I confirm. I think she understands that.

"His name's Arthur," Canada explains, rubbing his neck and looking back at him worriedly. "He was with Issa when they crashed—but it looks like they did something to mess with his mind...."

"That's not good," she responds, frowning. "Why does he look like Josh? Are they related?"

"No, they're not related. That's a good question, though, Renae— we have no idea why they look alike."

The door to the infirmary opens, and Josh is there. He's changed clothes, and it looks like he's showered recently. He looks a lot better. "Is— is everyone okay? I heard screaming...."

"Yeah, we're okay," America answers, crossing his arms. "England's here, but he's not okay.... Something's up with his head...."

Josh frowns and hesitantly pads up to his side. For a while, he just stands there, staring blankly at England's limp form.  "...I— ...It's like I— ... like I can  _feel_  his pain.... I've never met him, but...."

"Well, you two are connected...," Canada suggests.

"Do you feel like that with Issa?" he asks, giving me another glance.

"Hm," he thinks. "Maybe? I— I dunno, it's more like I feel a lot more protective over her than I would be with anyone else...."

"Aw, that's so sweet," I tease.

He chuckles and pats my shoulder. "Don't push it," he jokes.

"We should give him some space for when he wakes up again," Hungary suggests. "I can get your family set up in a different room." I nod. Canada explains that, and they leave.

Josh sits on the cot next to mine, still facing England, pulling his feet up so he can cross his legs.  For a while, we just stare sadly at England. He inhales sharply, but stops, like he wants to say something, but he's not sure how. Eventually, "...So, this is England. The reason I got kidnapped."

I shrug. "I mean, I guess."

He can't understand me, but he continues. "I don't— I don't know if I want to be mad at him or not. I  _want_  to, I think. I want to have someone to blame. But he didn't know about this...and he's in so much pain right now. I can  _feel_  that...." He sighs, and he leans against me. "I don't know. This is all just...  _weird_."

Canada walks back in and sighs disapprovingly.  "You said you had surgery, what— yesterday or the day before? You need to lie down. You need some rest."

It's almost funny how he hovers over me, except it's kind of annoying. I can't really do anything without him speaking up to tell me I'm going to exacerbate my stitches. He only has my best interest in mind, though, so I listen to him and take his requests seriously.

"So we all agreed that we'd go and find the others that the Axis kidnapped," Canada explains, in English so we both understand. 

"Why?" I ask. I bet they'd like to forget that this whole thing ever happened. 

"We were thinking that if, for some reason, they decided to go back to their original plan, they couldn't use them, either," he says. "France called earlier to say he found Harvey, but we still don't know where Dimah is. Hey may be in danger." 

 

 

 

______________________________________________________________________________

 

 

 

Dimah has never slept well. He slumbers even less in captivity, averaging about one hour per night, if that. Often, they have to come in, hold him down, and inject him with some sort of medicine so that he can rest. They had offered pills; Dimah had told them exactly where they could put those.

So, when the door slams open late at night during mid-March, Dimah tenses from his position in the bay windowsill. He has decided that they will not be drugging him anymore, and he's ready to fight. He's been biting his fingernails into claws, and he's not afraid to rake them down someone's face if he needs to.

It surprises him when they don't go after him at all—they go for Josh, who has almost won the hostage-of-the-year award in terms of his behavior. Josh, who, after receiving yet again no answer from Issa next door, has fallen asleep in his bed. Josh, who Dimah has begun to see as a helpless little brother.

They must have guessed that Dimah would feel protective over his two roommates, so they have sent in people to wrestle him into submission. They're wearing thick gear, so Dimah's claws do nothing to them.

It surprises Dimah even more when he realizes that the Big Bad's Themselves are right outside and coming in. (It has stopped alarming him that he knows whether his three original captors are near.) The guys in charge don't show themselves unless it's important.

Josh has two guards, each holding one arm. He struggles weakly, confused and scared and only half-awake. Harvey, in the corner, only has one guard, and he doesn't dare protest his current predicament.

Beilschmidt grabs Josh by the front of his T-shirt, yanking him out of the hold of his guards, and he pushes him against the wall. "Where the  _hell_  did she go?!" he shouts.

"Hey!" Dimah yells angrily. "If you are going to fight, fight me, instead!"

 _"Shut up!_ " he roars. He adds something in German to the soldiers holding Dimah, and one of them shoves a handkerchief in his mouth. Turning his attention back to Josh, he slams him into the wall again, ignoring Dimah's indignant noise and his captive's cry of pain. "She must have told you how she was going to do it!"

"Don't hurt him!" the weakest of the three, Vargas, Dimah thinks, wails.

"Sir," a woman says hurriedly as she enters. It's Josh's and Issa's translator; Dimah doesn't know what happened to the first one that was only there for a few days in January. "Sir, I've gone through all of the recordings—there's no way she could've communicated with him."

Letting out an enraged snarl, Beilschmidt turns and throws Josh across the room. The boy barely has time to gasp before he crashes into the other wall with a sickening  _thud_. He slides to the floor, too dazed to catch himself. There's a dent in the wall where Josh's head hit it.

The boys' captor pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. "Is he hurt?"

The woman kneels in front of him, speaking in English and trying to get Josh to look at her, which he doesn't seem to be capable of doing. "He appears to be concussed, sir."

"Take him to the infirmary and treat him. Leave these two idiots here."

"I know you're angry, but this sort of behavior is  _unacceptable_ ," Honda scolds as the soldiers bustle around, releasing Dimah and Harvey. The woman and a guard help Josh to his feet and escort him from the room.

Dimah rips the cloth out of his mouth as soon as he's able. "Hey! What has happened?" he yells at his abductors. They don't answer. They exit, leaving Harvey and Dimah alone.

Beilschmidt kept asking where "she" could have gone... and the only "she" that Josh is close to here is....

Dimah marches towards the ventilation shaft on the floor. For the first time, he knocks on it. "Um... Issa?" he calls. He knows she is either unable or unwilling to speak, but he expects at least a return-knock. After a few minutes of silence, Dimah deduces the truth: Issa—and maybe the Chinese girl whose name Dimah can never remember—has done the impossible. They have escaped.

 

 

They stop testing after that. Someone still escorts them to the cafeteria three times a day, and they still come stop Dimah from doing things like trying to break the window, but they stop testing. That's a big deal; Dimah wants this testing done as soon as possible, and they're delaying it, therefore keeping him for longer than what would have been necessary.

The door opens after around a week (maybe less; Dimah has stopped counting). Immediately, he's on his feet. "When will I be going home?" he demands, fed-up with not getting direct answers.

His translator, Kuznetsov, says dully, "Today," and pricks Dimah with a needle before he can stop him.

 

 

Dimah wakes with a start, drenched and freezing and disoriented. There's a warmth coming from his right side, and he moves instinctively towards it. "Not so close," a gentle voice scolds. "You'll burn."

If he were more awake, he would've recognized the voice of his elder sister. Instead, he recoils from what he perceives as a stranger, scuttling backwards until he falls off the side of the couch. "Dimah," Vera soothes. "Dimah, you're okay—I promise you're okay now—come here—."

"V—Vera?" he gasps, still flinching away from her hand.

"Yes! It's me, Dimah—please, calm down...."

"Why'm I wet?" he asks stupidly. Looking down, he realizes he's still wearing the jumpsuit from Berlin.

"We found you outside, and it's snowing," she says softly. "Oh, Dimah—I thought we lost you!" She ignores how he shrinks back more and hugs him. Slowly, he returns the gesture. "Where were you?! What happened?!"

A cold voice that Dimah has been dreading to hear for a month sounds throughout the room. "Yes, I'd like to know that, as well."

Dimah gasps and jumps to his feet. "F—Father," he greets trying to control how his voice trembles. He loses his balance and falls against Vera.

"Well?" he asks cruelly.

"B—Berlin, they said. F—Father, I did ev—everything I could to es—."

"I'm not interested in your excuses, son," Dmitri Petrakis says in a dangerously even tone. "I'm more interested in who took you."

"Th—they called themselves Ludwig B—Beilschmidt, Kiku Honda, and Fe—Feliciano V—."

"Vargas?" he cuts in, looking excited. "Are—... are you  _certain_  those are their names?"

Dimah nods. "Yes."

For some reason, Dmitri acts more like... well, fatherly, after that. "Come here, my boy," he says, and he helps Dimah sit. "No wonder you were unable to win."

"You're not—... mad?"

"Under normal circumstances, I would be," he admits. "But these are not normal circumstances! You weren't taken by men—you were taken by  _countries_!"

"C—countries?" he echoes.

"Come now—you didn't notice anything unusual about them?"

Dimah thinks about it, and he realizes that his father is right. "I—I could...  _feel_  them."

"I'm not surprised. I can't exactly explain why, myself, but I'm not surprised. What happened? Did you speak with them? What did they say?"

"Th—they said they w—wanted t—to—."

"Speak clearly," Dmitri demands, shaking Dimah slightly.

"They s—said they—." Dimah's voice breaks, and his eyes fill with tears. He hastily wipes them. "I'm sorry—I—."

"Father, he's overwhelmed," Vera interrupts. "He needs rest."

Dmitri looks like he's overflowing with questions for his son, but after a few moments, he agrees, "Fine. Sleep this off, Dimah—I want you at top shape tomorrow morning."

"Y—yes, Father," he murmurs, and he curls against Vera to hide his wet face.

 

 

"I don't understand a lot of what happened," Dimah admits the next day in his father's office. "They kept drugging me, and they wouldn't talk to me. They wanted to... test me, I think."

"Test on you?" Dmitri raises an eyebrow.

"Not  _on_  me. Just... me. What I'd do in certain situations, how I'd react to different stimuli... things like that. I did everything I could to skew their results, but...."

"How often were they around you?"

"Not very often. They were only there on the first day, or if tests were particularly important. The last time I saw them was... about a week ago, sometime during the night. They were upset because one—both, actually—girls they were testing on had escaped, and they wanted my cell mate to tell them how they'd done it."

"How did they?"

"I don't know, Father," Dimah answers truthfully. "One of the girls had frequent nightmares—she would wake up and scream, so they would enter her room and put her to sleep. That had happened earlier that night, so I don't think she would have been able to escape by herself. And the other girl was much too frightened to try anything dangerous. They must have had help."

"But you didn't escape—you were released."

"That's how I understand it, yes." After a moment's hesitation, he adds, "B—but it wasn't from lack of trying."

Dmitri lets the information sink in before he takes a sip of his coffee. "Did they violate you?"

He asks the question so calmly that Dimah isn't sure how to react. He decides that he should tell the truth. "They... needed... a full-body exam," he admits, and he feels his blood rush to his face. "They drugged me for that. Nothing particularly malicious, though," he adds hastily. "It was just... data collection, I think."

"Interesting," Dmitri hums, and he pours a shot of vodka in his coffee and takes another sip. "...What did they make of your scars?"

Dimah finds his shoes to be suddenly very fascinating. "...They were... concerned," he tells him. "They actually had someone...." He rolls up his sleeve to his elbow to show him what he's talking about— the day they did the allergy testing, they had a team of doctors stitch up all of the open cuts on Dimah's back, chest, and arms, and he shows his father the stitches. "I—I told them I... did it to myself."

"...Hm," Dmitri grunts, and Dimah can't tell if his father is angry at that or not. "So, if the countries were rarely there, how is it you were never able to escape?"

"There were dozens of soldiers, and my translator was always ready with a syringe if I ever had showed signs of acting up. I think he drugged me... more than ten times. Sometimes it would knock me out, but sometimes it would just slow me down."

"It seems that's what we need to work on next," he decides, and he drains his spiked coffee and stands.

 

 

For the next few weeks, Father makes sure that Dimah is in some way drugged before starting training. Dimah has horrible flashbacks, but it isn't like he can talk about it to anyone, so he cries himself to sleep. Most of his stitches burst before they can heal. He has to remove the loose threads himself, because Vera doesn't know the extent of their father's physical abuse.

They work on sneak-attacks, too. Dimah is paranoid and stressed to the breaking point from lack of sleep. Dimah naps in odd places, including the ventilation shaft at his father's warehouse and under his truck in the garage.

It isn't until Dimah, hopped up on ketamine, can successfully win a fist fight that Dmitri allows Dimah to rest.

"You've done well," he praises before Dimah blacks out.

 

 

Three weeks after his release, Dimah is sitting in his room trying very hard not to cry. There's no reason to—he shouldn't  _still_  be scared.

But he  _is_. He  _is_  still scared—he's terrified that the countries will come back for him.

When the headlights stream in from his frosted-over window, Dimah stands up so suddenly that he knocks his chair over. He whirls around when the door slams open, ready to defend himself, but it's only Vera. "I heard a crash," she says.

Dima recognizes the roar of the engine outside—it's Father's truck. He relaxes slightly. "...Chair fell over," he explains, and he picks it back up.

She notices him wiping his eyes, and a sad look crosses her face. "Dimah, it's been almost a month. When are you going to tell me about what happened?"

"Maybe never," he snaps. "Not if you keep pushing me."

"You told Father," she points out.

"Yeah, but you know how he is." Vera may not know how abusive Father is, but she knows he's not a nice man.

The door creaks open again. "How exactly am I?" Dmitri asks threateningly, the stench of alcohol pouring off him in waves.

 _Great,_  Dimah thinks,  _he's drunk_. Their father is frequently drunk, and more often than not, he's violent. "I—Intimidating," he explains. "Commanding."

"Hm," he growls, taking a staggering step forward. "Coward," he decides, pointing at Dimah.

Dimah isn't offended. He  _feels_  like a coward, so the shoe fits. He's more offended when Dmitri decides his response isn't exciting enough and punches Dimah across the face.

He reels back, clutching at the sore spot on his cheek. Vera lets out a cry of anguish. "What was that for?!" she demands. "You didn't have to—!" Her voice dies as he hits her, too.

Dimah's fury swells. Dmitri can punch his son all he wants, but as soon as he goes for his daughters, Dimah draws the line. He knows there's no reasoning with Dmitri when he's like this; violence is the only thing he'll answer to while he's in this state. So, Dimah doesn't hesitate in punching his father right back.

He topples like a felled tree. Dimah, breathing heavily, backs down to check on Vera. "Are you okay?" he asks gruffly.

"Y—yeah," she whimpers, holding her face.

"Let me see." Dimah moves her hand and hums in disapproval. "It'll bruise. Let's get some ice on it."

"Wh—what about you?"

"I'll be fine," he dismisses.

"Dimah—has he done this before?"

"No," he lies automatically.

"Dimah," she says, sounding like she doesn't believe him.

"No!" he says, trying to sound secure in the story. "...There are... mishaps during training, is all."

"Dimah, please don't lie to me," Vera begs.

"I'm not!" he insists.

She grabs his arm, which is still covered in open cuts under his shirt, and he can't hold back a wince. Before he can stop her, she yanks up his sleeve. He hurriedly rolls it back down, but the damage is done—she's seen.

"...Let me see," she says softly, and it sounds like she's trying not to cry.

"No," he manages. "C'mon, let's get some ice on your face."

"Dimah!" she shouts without warning. "Show me your arms  _right now_!"

Her sudden intensity takes him aback, and he stands frozen like a deer in headlights under her scorn. "I—I—," he tries. "N—no, I—I...."

Vera doesn't listen. She rolls his sleeves up again, and, for some reason, he doesn't stop her. Her voice is gentle. "When did this happen?"

"Wh—while ago," Dimah manages, sounding like a pathetic little kid. "It—it was me—I did this—I—."

"Please don't lie to me, Dimah," Vera says again. "Was this Father's doing?"

It surprises him to find out how easily the answer comes. "Yes," he whispers, and he winces, because he has just broken Rule Number One: Vera and Alina are never to know about his scars.

"We'll move out," Vera decides. "I'm old enough to have custody of you and Alina."

"Father will never allow it," he manages.

"We don't need his permission."

"Vera, you don't know what he's capable of," Dimah begs. "Please, just leave things the way they are. He's not going to remember this in the morning."

"How can I  _leave_  things?!" she cries. "He's  _hurting_  you!"

"I'm—I'm  _used_  to it—it doesn't hurt!" he tries.

There's suddenly a horrible squelching sound from behind them. Dmitri has regained partial consciousness, and all he wants to do is cause someone harm. He has his knife out, and he was going for Vera, but Alina, having been awoken by the noise, dives in his way—earning a blade to her stomach for her troubles.

Vera screams as their little sister collapses. Dimah, filled with horror and fury, blocks out what happens next. He only realizes what's happening when Vera grabs his wrist—he has beaten his father into unconsciousness again.

"Dimah, stop! We need to get her to a hospital!"

"Yeah," he grunts. Dmitri got a good punch in, and Dimah's nose is bleeding.

 

 

They steal their father's car keys from his pocket. He definitely shouldn't have been driving in his state, and he shouldn't be from that point on, anyway. Besides, this is his fault, and he's in no shape to stop them.

"Tell me about Berlin," Vera says, about ten minutes into the drive. They live about a half-hour away from the closest hospital, and they decided to go the back way—Vera isn't the best driver, and she's shaking and emotional. Dimah would drive, but he doesn't know how yet.

"...What do you want to know?" Dimah finds himself asking. Alina is unconscious in his arms, wrapped in a blanket.

"What did they do to you?"

"Are you sure you want to hear this while you're driving?"

"Was it that bad?"

Dimah thinks about it. "...They kept me sedated or restrained or both most of the time. They were testing me. There were four other kids there that they were also testing on—two other boys and two girls."

"What kind of tests?"

"Physical tests, psychological tests, written tests, you name it. They wanted to see what I could do."

"Why?"

"Hell if I know."

"And you're—."

"I'm fine," he answers quickly.

"You don't have to lie to me," she whispers, and she takes his hand.

Dimah sits there for a few minutes, trembling and fighting back tears. "Okay," he decides at last. "I'm not fine—I'm  _so scared_ , all the time, and I just can't move on!"

"It's okay," she tells him.

"It's really not."

"Why didn't you tell me about your cuts?" Vera asks after a while, squeezing his hand.

"F—Father made me pr—promise not to," he admits. "I—I don't want to talk about this, okay? I'm breaking his rule...."

"Forget him and his rules!" Vera cries. "He  _stabbed_  Alina! He  _tortured_  you for  _years_! We're  _leaving_  him, and he's never going to find us!"

"He'll find us," Dimah says, believing it completely. "He'll find us, and he'll—... he'll—...."

"Kill us?" she asks.

"Maybe," he admits. He doesn't know for sure what Father will do if he finds them. There'll be pain—that's for certain.

"The courts will be on our side, right? We can get a restraining order!"

Dimah gives a weak chuckle. "You think a restraining order would stop him from getting what he wants? You don't know him as well as I do."

"What did he do to you?" Vera demands.

"...These...," he shrugs his arms without shifting Alina, "...were... punishments. If I couldn't train as hard as he wanted... or if I answered a question wrong... or... if he felt like it...."

Vera is quiet as she absorbs his words. Finally, she bursts, "This isn't  _fair_! He's our  _father_ —he's supposed to  _love_  us and keep us  _safe_! Instead he uses your arms as a sharpening block and  _stabs_  our sister—his  _daughter_! She could—!" She sobs. "She could  _die_ , Dimah! Alina could  _die_!"

"She's not going to die! Don't  _say_  that!" Dimah protests, and he feels himself crying, too.

"But what if she  _does_?!" Vera shouts, her worries getting the best of her. "What if she doesn't make it—what are we going to do then?!"

"She's  _not_! We're  _not_  going to think like—." Headlights flood through the windshield, and Dimah gasps. In her emotion, Vera has drifted into oncoming traffic. " _Look out!_ "

Vera gasps and jerks the wheel to the right, but she over-corrects and veers into the ditch. Dimah holds Alina tighter and flings his arm in front of Vera just as the airbags deploy.

He's dazed for a few seconds. "A—are you o—okay?" he manages, his voice barely registering over the ringing in his ears.

"I—I think so," she answers. "Is Alina—?"

Alina looks about as fine as she was before the crash. "Y—yeah. C'mon, let's see if this thing can move; we still have a ways to go."

He helps Vera out of the truck. Smoke billows from its crumpled hood, and he hears his sister groan. "Father's going to be  _so_  mad...."

Dimah suddenly realizes that the tightness in his chest has nothing to do with his sudden adrenaline rush. He pushes Vera behind him and looks around for the threat. This is a new one—he hasn't felt this one before.

"Is everyone okay?" a voice sounds out. The other car, a red SUV, sustained no damage; it just made a circle in the road, the tire tracks on the pavement documenting its movement. Its driver is a tall silhouette against the headlights.

"Stay the hell away from us!" Dimah shouts.

"Dimah, what—?" Vera tries, but he shushes her.

"I'm sorry?" the country asks, stepping closer. "I'm afraid I don't understand. Are you hurt?"

"I said  _stay back_!" Dimah roars. "I know what you are, and I want  _nothing_  to do with you!"

That stops the country in his tracks. "...You're covered in blood," he notices.

"Our sister's been stabbed—she needs a hospital!" Vera cries before Dimah can stop her.

"No!" Dimah says angrily. "We don't want  _your_  help!"

The country takes another step forward. "You're Dimah Petrakis," he says.

"I'm not going with you!" he shouts desperately, fear making him feel sick.

"Relax, Dimah," the country soothes. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"Yeah, 'cause I'm not going to give you the opportunity!  _Go away_!"

"Let me help."

" _NO_!" Dimah screams, so loudly and desperately that both the country and Vera take a step away from him. In Japanese, because he knows that's what the countries speak, he demands, "I am not going to tell you again, you foul creature—you are to  _leave_  us,  _right this instant_!"

"My name is Ivan Braginsky," the country says, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "I understand you're scared, but I've been looking for you. You're in danger, Dimah—let me help."

"I'm only in danger because of  _your kind_!"

"Do you want Germany and Japan to come back for you?" he asks in Japanese.

He must be talking about Beilschmidt and Honda. "No, but—."

"I can protect you. And your family, if you want. Your sister is hurt, isn't she? I can help."

Dimah is torn. Alina is losing more and more blood by the second. She's so pale. With tremendous effort, he manages in Japanese, "Take my sister to a hospital.... I'll go with you."

"'Atta boy," Braginsky smiles, and he extends a hand to help Dimah out of the ditch. Dimah slaps it away.

"I swear to God, country," Dimah threatens, pointing an accusing finger at him, "if you hurt them—."

"I won't. You can trust me."

Dimah almost laughs. Trust a country? Absolutely not. Instead, he helps Vera out of the ditch and into Braginsky's SUV. "Dimah, what's going on?!" she whispers, clutching his sleeve. "How does he know you?! Was he there in Berlin?! Are we in danger?!"

Dimah can't bring himself to answer. He clambers in the back seat with her. Holding Alina tightly to his chest, he folds in on himself, trying to fight back tears, but not being very successful. Vera keeps a hand on his back, whispering questions that go unanswered by her brother.

 

 

After a long time, the SUV stops. Dimah bolts upright and wipes his eyes. At once, he knows something is wrong. "What's this?" he demands. "I said the  _hospital_!" They have pulled up in the driveway of a mansion.

"This is my home," Braginsky says, opening the back door for Dimah to get out. He sees the man in the light for the first time, and it's like looking into a mirror. His eyes are the same eerie shade of dark blue-almost purple that Dimah's are. "I have a surgical suite ready, and my friends Eduard and Toris are ready to perform on your sister. We can save her."

"I said the  _hospital_!" Dimah insists, tightening his hold on Alina.

"Dimah, please," Vera begs. "She's lost so much blood already...."

Dimah looks at Alina. Her face is a ghastly white, almost gray. He makes a very rash decision, and he gets out of the car, following the country with shaky steps. Two men—no, two  _countries_ —are standing in the front hall with a stretcher. They move to take Alina from him, but he takes a step back.

"It's okay, Dimah," Braginsky soothes, putting a large hand on his shoulder.

Dimah very slowly puts Alina on the stretcher. She has regained a small bit of consciousness, and she raises her hands, silently asking to be picked up. Dimah moves to do so, but the countries stop him. Braginsky has to hold him back as the other two wheel her away. "Don't hurt her!" he shouts after them. "I—I have to be there with her," he demands, trying to pull out of the country's grasp.

"She'll be okay. She's in good hands," Braginsky says calmingly. "Come on; I'll explain everything."

He leads them to the parlor and has them sit. "Dimah, please—tell me what's happening? Are we in danger or not?!" Vera pleads in a whisper, clutching at his arm.

"I—I don't know," he manages.

"How come he looks like you?"

"That's the million-dollar-question," Braginsky announces, taking a seat in the armchair across from them.

"You cannot keep my sisters," Dimah demands in Japanese so Vera doesn't understand. "You are wanting me, not them."

"I'm not going to keep any of you hostage," he dismisses, matching the language. A thought seems to occur to them. "We have a few mutual friends that might convince you to trust me. I think the only one you'll be able to understand is Isabella Pryce."

"Isabella does not speak," he remembers.

"Oh, that's right—I forgot that she went nonverbal for a while. No, she talks now. Would you like me to call her?"

"Yes," he decides. Isabella always seemed sure of herself, even when she stopped talking.

So he pulls out his phone and dials. "Who's Isabella?" Vera asks, fed up with not being able to understand.

"One of the girls in Berlin," he answers.

"Hi, Canada!" Braginsky says into his phone. "I found Dimah and his family, but he doesn't trust me. Can I please speak to Isabella?"

"Canada," Dimah repeats.

"Yes." There's a pause. "Hello, Isabella! How are you feeling? I'm sorry. Listen, do you remember Dimah Petrakis? He's a little bit wary of me right now. Would you tell him there's nothing to be frightened of? Great! Here he is."

Braginsky hands the phone to Dimah, who takes it cautiously. "H—hello?"

"Hi, Dimah!" Issa says brightly, sounding happy. "I'm so glad you're okay!"

"...That is... debatable," he admits. "What is happening? You speak fluent Japanese now? You speak at all?"

"Oh, yeah, I... had to learn pretty quickly," she says. "And yeah, I'm talking again. I was... pretty traumatized in Berlin, but I'm mostly okay now. What about you?"

"I am... not as okay as I would like," he confesses.

"I'm sorry. Me neither, actually, but I've had a lot of help."

"From the countries?"

"Yeah. Most of them aren't bad. You can trust Russia—he's really nice. He'll help you."

"I barely know you, let alone  _him_ ," Dimah realizes. "Why should I trust  _either_  of you?"

She's silent for a few moments. "Well...," she says at last, "...what other choice do you have?"

Dimah buries his face in his hand, and he almost hangs up the phone. She's right. He has no other options. He  _has_  to trust this country—Russia, she called him—because he holds all the cards. He's having Alina treated, and he's sheltering them, and it wouldn't be very hard to force them to stay.

"Listen, Dimah," Issa says, "we're all in Vienna right now. Russia can take you, and we'll all keep you safe. We think that Germany and Japan are out looking for you again."

"If they are looking for me, why did they let me go?"

"They thought they had a better plan, but we managed to stop them, so we're worried they'll go back to their first one. Russia can tell you about it, or I can, when you get here."

"You sound so sure that I will not just walk away."

"Dimah," she says, sounding disapproving. "It's really either us or them." When he's about to interrupt, she continues, raising her voice a little bit, "No, not neither. We can keep you safe, Dimah. Please, just trust me."

Dimah thinks about it. Finally, he manages, "...Okay."

"Great!" she says, and he can almost hear her smile. An odd sensation, since he doesn't remember her smiling at all in Berlin. "I'll see you soon, then!"

"Okay."

She hangs up after saying a quick goodbye. He hands the phone back to Russia, who takes it with a reassuring smile. "See? Everything is okay."

 

 

Russia explains everything else—their theories on why Germany and Japan took him, what's happened since his release, and other things. Then, he shows them to a guest room, saying they'll leave in the morning, when Alina is feeling better. "The surgery went great," he tells them. "She's a tough little girl." 


	9. Miracle

Life at Austria's house is a lot more exciting than I thought. About a week into our stay, they have let me get out of bed and do light physical therapy. So I'm downstairs in the living room when Austria opens the front door to get his mail, and there's a body lying motionless on his doorstep in a puddle of blood. 

"Who is that?" Hungary asks, worried. She goes and flips them over so she can see their face. It's a girl. She looks like she's around my age. She's Latina, with shoulder-length dark brown hair and tan skin. I bet her eyes are brown, but I can't tell because they're closed. She's wearing a thick knit yellow sweater over jeans. "She's not breathing," Hungary reports grimly. "No pulse."

"There's a dead body on my porch," Austria says numbly, seeming confused and startled.

It's not a mystery as to how it happened. The blood that pools around her is her own, and it spills from two identical cuts, one on each wrist. As soon as I take that in, Canada grabs my elbow, steering me away a little bit. "You don't need to see this," he tells me. I don't argue with him—it really is scary. I've never seen a dead body before.

"What do we do?" America asks.

"I don't know," Hungary answers.

Canada is still trying to lead me away when I hear it—the girl's shuddering gasp for air.

She's alive.

America jumps into action, scooping up the girl, and he carries her to the infirmary. I'm concerned and curious—I feel a weird connection with the stranger. Is it because I see myself in her? She bears the same scars I do, and that's not something I can ignore. So I follow them.

England is asleep, which is good. There's a little girl resting on a bed on the other side of the room from him; Dimah's sister, Alina, I think. Russia brought him and his sisters yesterday. America lays the girl on the cot closest to the door. "Uh, I don't know what to do. Elizabeth?"

Hungary entered right after he did, and she's already on it. "Put pressure on her wrists—try to stop the blood."

"Got it." He wraps his hands around each forearm and squeezes. The rush of blood slows.

Hungary quickly rummages around in a cabinet before she takes out a plastic bag full of blood, and she connects it to an IV. She sticks it in the girl's arm. Then, she gets to work, cauterizing the edges of the cut before she stitches it up. She works swiftly and precisely—she's good at this.

"I don't get it," she murmurs. She takes out a box of wet wipes and starts mopping away the blood covering the girl. America helps; it looks like he's thinking. "She was dead. I'm sure of it."

"...She's not one of mine," he says after a while. He notices my confused expression and elaborates, "I can tell when someone's my citizen. She's not American."

"Not mine, either," Hungary reports. "Who is she? How did she get here? What happened to her?"

I bite my lip. I don't know her, but I feel like I do. Sitting down, I grab a wipe and start to help clear away the blood. I start with her left hand, slowly mopping the liquid away. Her nails are painted a bright yellow, and it looks like she's bitten them to stumps. The polish is chipping.

My hand hovers over the freshly-stitched wound. As I roll up her bloodied sleeve, I see that her arm is covered in more cuts than the newest on her wrists. It makes me sad.

"Let's get these clothes off her," Hungary suggests. It's a little bit weird to me, but I understand—the girl's clothes are stained. They're probably ruined. America helps; I suppose it's not weird for him, either. All of the countries have lived long enough to not be squeamish about bodies, but I still am, so I turn away. I don't look back until Hungary walks past me, the girl's bloodstained clothes bundled in her arms.

They dressed the girl in a clean hospital gown decorated with little daisies. Her nose whistles slightly as she sleeps. "She'll be okay," Hungary announces as she reenters the room. "She's stable.... I guess...."

"She's a human," America points out. "Wouldn't she be better off in a human hospital?"

"We can't take her there. They'd ask too many questions about us."

"This is weird," he complains. "How did she get there? There was no blood trail—it's like she walked up to the door and  _then_  slit her wrists. And why would she do that? Unless she knows who we are...?" he muses. "No, she's, like, twelve. How could she know?"

She doesn't look twelve; she looks my age. That's just another parallel between us. I can't help but feel connected to her; she's just like me.

Well, not  _just_  like me. She's not a country lookalike, and she doesn't have weird exploding blood. She probably wasn't kidnapped by dumb anime characters, either. It's just that we both tried to commit suicide the same way, and we're the same age, and we both bite our nails.... Actually, the similarities stop there. She's pretty short; I'm pretty tall for my age. She's Latina; I'm white. I don't know anything about her personality, so I can't factor that in, but it's probably not "boring bookworm consumed with anxiety" like me.

But still—I feel drawn to her. I want her to get better; I want her to  _feel_  better, both physically and emotionally.

I remain sitting by the girl even after Hungary and America leave. After maybe fifteen minutes, I hear the door open again. It's Canada. "Hey," he greets gently.

"Hi."

"...Do you know her?"

"No," I answer. "I don't."

He doesn't seem to buy it. I don't know her—we've never met. Still.... I can't help but feel...linked.

My nose is running, something that happens when I'm about to cry. I don't know why I want to cry. Sniffing, I hold up my wrist. "Twinsies," I explain.

"Ohh," he says, understanding. He wraps his arm around my shoulder, gently squeezing me.

We sit in silence for a while. Until, finally, the girl whines quietly, shifting a little bit.

"I'll get Elizabeth," Canada says, and he leaves.

Hesitantly, I grasp her hand. "It's okay," I hear myself say. Nonsense words, I know. Nothing is ever okay. I remember that's what someone told me when I was in her shoes, but it definitely wasn't.

"Where 'm I?" she whimpers. English. She has a British accent.

"You're in Vienna, Austria," I tell her, forgetting that my words are probably gibberish to her.

"Pretty sure they don't speak Japanese in Austria," she mumbles, matching the language. I've learned how to tell the difference, now.

"Oh—you speak," I say stupidly. I don't want to ask her why she did what she did; I don't want to upset her. "How did you get here?"

"No idea," she responds. Finally, she opens her eyes a little bit.

I have to suppress a gasp—for a second, I could have sworn her irises were pure crimson. But, quickly, they turn dark brown.

"How—? How  _did_  I get here?" she asks, struggling to sit up. I don't know if I should let her or not, so I don't protest.

"Someone carried you," I tell her.

"No—no, not here, as in, this room, I meant  _here_. In  _Vienna_."

I'm taken aback. But she seems genuinely confused about it. "You—I mean—I don't—you... don't know?"

"No," she confirms. "Last I knew I was... in my—...my room...." Her voice fades, and she pulls her hands onto her lap, staring at the wounds. Her eyes well with tears. "Why did I do that?" she whispers to herself, covering her face, and she leans forward to cry into her knees.

Hesitantly, I reach out and put my hand on her back. I don't want to tell her "it's okay," because, obviously, it isn't. So, instead, "What's your name?"

"L—Lauren," she informs me. She sits up a little so she can wipe at her nose, and asks, "And you are?"

"My name's Isabella, but I go by Issa."

Lauren leans back, trying to dry her eyes. "My mum's gonna kill me. She'll be out of her mind with worry.... When's visiting hours?"

"Oh, um, this isn't a hospital," I tell her.

She's confused. "But—them, and this," she gestures vaguely at England and Alina and then at her gown.

The door opens, and Hungary enters. "Oh, good—Issa. Is she talking? Do we know what language she speaks?"

"Japanese," I report, smiling a little at her embarrassed expression.

"Oh, my goodness, dear, I didn't mean to—," she starts.

"It's okay," Lauren interrupts feebly. She stares at her wrists, gently running her pointer finger around the puckered edges of the one on her right arm.

Hungary goes through the introduction process, trying to get information out of her. Her name is Lauren Cohen, and she's from London, England. Lauren clams up when Hungary tries to ask about mental illnesses like depression and anxiety, and she seems to retreat into herself when she asks how long she's been suicidal.

"How did I get here?" Lauren asks, ignoring Hungary's questioning.

"You don't—?"

"No! I don't!" Her frustrated cry startles me, but I manage to stop myself from flinching. From across the room, England stirs.

Hungary noticed. "Okay, okay—shh, settle down, now...." She watches him for a few moments before deciding he's not going to move. She thinks for a moment, tapping her finger against her chin. "Lauren... I don't know exactly how to put this, but... when we found you, you were—... well, you were  _dead_."

"...Dead?" she repeats meekly.

Hungary nods, looking solemn. "You weren't breathing.... You had no pulse, no heartbeat.... You were so pale that I was sure you had completely bled out.... There was a  _lot_  of blood, Lauren...."

I can tell that the news shocks her, and she doesn't say anything for a while. Then, clearing her throat, "Then I—I guess I'm... I'm supposed to be here."

Hungary frowns a little bit. "Well—Lauren, it's not...  _safe_  for you here. You need to go back home; I'm sure your family will be worried."

She shakes her head, finally looking up at the country. "Do you believe in miracles?" Without waiting for her response, she continues, "I do. I was dead, and some way, somehow, I was brought back to life. That means I have a  _purpose_. And, for whatever reason, my purpose must be  _here_. How else would I have gotten here?"

"There are plenty of ways you could have gotten here," Hungary dismisses, not convinced.

"But the timeframe doesn't add up," she protests. "It only takes a few minutes for someone to bleed out when—...when they—... you know. And it takes hours to get from London to Vienna. You said there was a lot of my blood when you found me—if I had been put on a plane, I would be completely dry by the time I got to this place." She smiles faintly. "I'm needed here. I  _must_  be."

Lauren's words make sense to me, but Hungary is still skeptical. "If you tell me your phone number, I'll call your parents."

"And tell them what, exactly? I slit my wrists and ended up in Vienna?"

"Yes, I suppose," she answers.

They continue to argue. I don't know what to think; I'm still not fond of strangers, but, for whatever reason, I kind of want this girl to stay. Is she destined to be here? Or, am I just starved for attention from people my age, since I can't talk to Josh or Zack or anyone else? I don't know.

Hungary is starting to get frustrated. I know I don't want to witness her wrath, so I get up and kind of wander to the door, which is open. Down the stairs, I have a clear view of the living room and the entrance hall, so I hear it when someone knocks on the front door.

I don't know who Austria would invite over; I thought we're already housing all the countries and lookalikes that are involved with this. A bad feeling washes over me, and I step slightly back in the infirmary, still watching the door.

Austria looks through the peephole. He's already such a tense person, so, when he seems to stiffen even more, I know something's wrong.

Whoever's outside knocks again, more persistent this time. Through the wood, he calls, "I know you're in there, Austria! I just want to talk!"

I nearly faint. Germany is right outside.

Canada dashes from the living room, taking the stairs two at a time, and he pushes me back into the infirmary room, shutting the door behind him. I collapse onto the closest chair, already hyperventilating, which is still really hard and painful. "I told you.  _I told you_ ," I hear myself saying. "I  _told_  you he'd come."

"Shh, shh, it's okay," Canada says, enveloping me into his arms. "We won't let him near you. It's okay; just breathe."

"Matthew—what's happening?" Hungary asks.

"It's Ludwig," he replies grimly. "He's here."

"Who's Ludwig?" Lauren asks, not pleased to be out of the loop. "Is she okay?"

I'm not okay. "He found me," I keep repeating. "How did he find me?" My voice sounds a lot calmer than I am, but it cracks. I'm not crying, for once. Hyperventilating, yes, but not crying. I think I'm too shocked to cry.

Hungary turns off the lights. "Stay here," she tells us. "I'll try to get him to leave without letting him know for sure that you're here. Lock the door behind me."

Canada releases me to follow her orders, but he comes back. Lauren seems to understand the severity of the situation, and she remains silent.

"I—I'm afraid I'm rather busy at the moment." Austria's voice travels. "You should go."

"I won't be long," I hear Germany answer, sounding friendlier than I've ever heard it. He still must assume that Austria and Hungary don't know anything about what he's been up to. "I'm looking for something that was... misplaced." A strangled sob finally escapes me, and I bury my face in Canada's shirt.

"Why would it be here?" Hungary asks.

"Just a... feeling I have," he answers vaguely.

"I'll keep an eye out for it," Austria says.

"So you already know what I'm looking for," Germany replies. I hear an edge creep into his tone.

"I—I—no, I didn't say that."

"I know the girl is here," he growls, all traces of pleasantry gone. "I know you're hiding her."

"G—girl? I have no idea what you're—."

"Enough. Stop pretending. Tell me where she is, and I'll make things easier for you in the long run."

Hungary speaks up. "You need to leave." There's a moment of silence, and she adds, " _Now_."

I have no idea what's going on down there. I don't want to listen to this anymore, and I press my hands to my ears, leaning against Canada. It helps; their voices were already quiet, since we were listening to them through a door and down a flight of stairs. Now I can't hear them at all.

I flinch when someone knocks on the door, and Canada tightens his grip on me. "It's me," Hungary calls. "He's gone."

I relax, burying my face in my hands, still crying uncontrollably. Canada gets up to let her back in. She flicks the light back on, and she seems to be deep in solemn thought.

"What's going on?" Lauren asks.

"There's nothing you can do," Hungary tells her. "This situation has nothing to do with you, Lauren. It's best that you stay out of it."

"I want to help," she insists.

She decides to ignore the girl. Kneeling next to me, she puts a kind hand on my shoulder. "Issa, I know you're upset, but is there anything, anything at all, that could have led him here?"

I shake my head. "No, I—I think I'd know if h—he planted a tracker or something on me...."

"And Renae or Josh?"

"I have no idea," I answer, trying to make myself stop crying.

"I'll go ask them," Canada offers. He gives my shoulders one more squeeze before letting go and exiting.

Lauren swings her legs off her cot, facing me. "Are you okay?" I glance at her and shrug. "What's happening?"

"Th—there's some bad people after me," I manage, still wiping at my eyes. "I th—thought I was safe here.... But he found me again."

"...What did they do to you?" she asks, her voice soft.

My breath catches; I can't stop crying. "They hurt me," I whimper. "And they're not gonna stop following me until they get what they want."

She doesn't say anything for a long time. Finally, "Do  _you_  believe in miracles?"

I think about it. Maybe there was a time once when I did. But now... now, reality has slapped me so hard in the face that I no longer have the strength to get my hopes up for any divine intervention. "...No."

"...Will you tell me what they did to you?" I can tell she wants to move closer to me, but her IV bag prevents her.

I sigh, shaking my head slightly. "You just tried to kill yourself; I can't ask you to carry my burdens while you have your own."

"I don't mind," she offers. "I like to help people."

Hungary speaks up from across the room. "If you want to help people, you should start by helping yourself."

Lauren frowns, looking away. "...Don't like myself," I hear her mutter in English.

"Why not?" I venture, wiping my nose. "You seem nice."

She sighs. "I don't know." Her voice cracks, and her eyes well with tears. She's still speaking in English; maybe she's hoping Hungary won't understand her. They did get off on the wrong foot. "I just don't. I'm selfish. I'm pushy. I'm annoying. I'm stupid. I'm—... I dunno."

"I don't think you're any of those things," I say, trying to make her feel better. She shakes her head, wiping her eyes. "...Maybe we can trade stories? Help each other out?" I offer after a minute of thought.

"Issa," Hungary interjects, a stern edge in her voice. "We need to find out how he managed to track you."

I nod. "Right." She's just trying to keep me from disclosing information. She doesn't want me to make friends with Lauren because she still wants to send her back to her home.

"I think I have an idea," she tells me, still frowning, "but we'll need an X-ray before we can really check."

I'm silent for a moment before it hits me. "Oh my G— you think they—?" My hands fly up to cover the bandage on my chest.

"That's the only thing I can think of," she answers gravely.

 

 

Austria, as it turns out, is a complete, major  _hoarder_. He actually  _has_  an X-ray machine, along with an MRI machine and lots of other medical tech. He has rooms full of stuff, so it took forever to actually find the machine. It has hardly ever been used, so it's covered in a layer of dust, and it acts like an old vintage computer, whirring and taking forever to start up. I lay on the table underneath the scanner, hoping desperately that Hungary is wrong, that they  _didn't_  put a tracking device inside my chest cavity when they cut me open.

But they  _did._  Those bastards stuck a damn tracker right on my newly-healed rib.

I sit up as soon as Hungary turns off the machine, burying my face in my hands, practically chanting swear words as if it will help.

"It's going to be okay, Issa," Hungary comforts. "We'll get it out, and we'll get rid of it."

I nod, trying to believe her words. Deep down, I  _don't_. I don't believe her. Even if they take the tracker out, they know I'm here. I'll have to leave again, and I'm sure they're out there, somewhere behind the tree line.  _Waiting_.

She leads me to the living room. Mom is there, chatting politely with Canada. I don't think they told her about Germany's arrival, judging by how calm she seems. I'm already crying by the time I reach her, sitting down next to her and practically throwing myself into her embrace. "Issa, what's wrong?" she asks, stroking my hair. I shake my head. Behind me, Hungary explains to Canada, who then explains to Mom. Immediately, she insists, "I'm doing it."

"Dr. Pryce, it really would be better if—," Canada tries, but Mom cuts him off.

"No.  _I'm_  operating on my daughter."

"Elizabeth has been studying and practicing medicine for centuries," Canada explains. "She knows what she's doing."

"So do I!" He starts trying to convince her, but she interrupts again. "No. I know Issa. I  _gave birth_  to her.  _I'm operating on my daughter_."

Canada sighs and translates for Hungary. "We can work together," she says. "Someone who speaks English can be in there to help, as well."

Mom reluctantly agrees, protectively tightening her arms around me.

"How're you holding up, Issa?" Canada asks me gently.

I sigh, raising my head so he'll be able to understand me. "Tired of people cutting me," I say bitterly.

He smiles, trying to be sympathetic. Touching my shoulder, "This will be the last time, I pr—."

"Don't," I interrupt. "Don't promise." I know he's only trying to make me feel better, but I can't let him get my hopes up. I can't handle being disappointed again. "Don't make promises you can't keep."

 

 

There's a certain amount of time you have to wait before you can get surgery. It's so you can expel all the food waste in your body; sometimes the anesthetic can make you sick, and they don't want you to wake up in the middle of surgery and start throwing up.

So I wait.

Eventually, Josh sits next to me on the couch. "...Hey," he says, giving me a small smile. I return the gesture.

He doesn't say anything for a long time, and he doesn't look at me. I can tell something's wrong. He flinches a little bit when I touch his hand, turning away a little bit more. He takes a deep breath, like he's about to say something, but he slowly releases it. I squeeze his hand questioningly, and he sighs before pivoting towards me. "I—I'm sorry—I know you have your own problems, and that they're bigger than mine—it's just... I—I don't know who else to go to...." 

I shift closer, squeezing his hand again. "I don't mind," I tell him quietly, but he can't understand me. I remember that I can write in English, so I make that gesture at him. He nods, and he retrieves a pen and notebook, handing them to me. I scribble down what I said.

Even with my encouragement, he hesitates, remaining silent for a while more. Then, almost inaudibly, "...I'm—...scared."

It hits me. He  _just_  got out of there. I had England to help me talk through my experience, but he must feel like he's been shoved to the side, like no one's given him the opportunity to vent, and he's too nervous to ask for an ear.

" _I understand_ ," I write. I want to add that I'm scared, too, but he's already comparing his problems to mine, and I don't want to make this all about me.

"I don't know anyone here," he laments. "I mean, even  _you're_  almost a complete stranger to me.... I—I just wanna go home—I miss my family...."

" _I know_ ," I write, because I do. He's going through the same thing I did. " _You feel alone."_

"Yeah...."

" _Have you talked to anyone else about it?"_

"No." He shakes his head. "I can't talk to most of the people here, and the ones that I  _can_  understand are all busy... dealing.... Well, dealing with you."

My hand hovers on the paper before I manage to question, " _Do you resent me for that?"_

"No," he says quickly. "No, it's just—...." He trails off as he notices me scribbling again.

" _I wanted to apologize to you. The only reason Germany kept you longer and hurt you is because of me. He was using you to hurt me."_  I look up at him to gauge his reaction, but he turns away again. I nudge him to get his attention again after I add, " _I really wouldn't blame you if you resented me."_

He stares at my words for a while. Then, finally, "...All right. Maybe a little bit...." He sighs. "It's... not  _fair_ ," he complains.

" _Not fair that he hurt you to get back at someone you barely know?"_  I ask.

"Mhm," he nods feebly. "I—I remember trying to tell them th—that... it was useless to keep me because I—I probably didn't matter all that much to you...." I start to write, trying to protest, but he continues. "But then I saw you on the webcam, freaking out and cursing at him.... And... I kind of felt... glad? Because even though we only met a short time ago, I had already considered you a friend.... So I was glad to see that you cared about me... even though it meant they were justified in their choice to hurt me...."

" _You were there for me when I thought I was alone,"_  I tell him. " _Of course I consider you a friend. I'm just sorry that he punished you for it. And that I haven't been there for you since we got away."_

"You've been a bit preoccupied, understandably," he points out. "Broken bones and surgery and whatnot."

I nod. " _Tracking devices lodged inside my chest cavity._ "

" _That's_  how he found you?!" he asks, sounding horrified and a little disgusted.

I nod again. " _My mom and Hungary are gonna take it out tomorrow."_

He grimaces. " _Another_  surgery. And it's been, like, a week since your last one, right?"

" _Something like that_ ," I elaborate. " _I forget the exact numbers."_

"How are you even sitting up?!"

" _A mixture of spite and determination,_ " I admit. " _But, yeah, it hurts like hell_."

He smiles sadly. "See— you're so much stronger than me, Issa.... They beat you and played mind games on you and literally broke your bones, but you're still showing them up.... All they did was hit me a few times, and I'm here feeling sorry for myself...."

" _Pain is relative,_ " I remind him. " _You can't try to suppress your trauma because you think I had it worse. You've been hurt— you need to let yourself heal, not just bottle it up. And don't think I haven't been having my own pity parties."_

Josh reads my words, and then re-reads them. "...Okay," he whispers after a while. I can see his defensive walls crumbling, finally allowing himself to release his emotions.

" _Do you need a hug?_ "

He nods pitifully, tears streaming from his eyes. Mindful of my injuries, he accepts my embrace, clinging to my cardigan as he sobs into my shoulder. I stroke his hair, and I murmur reassurances to him. "It's okay.... I'm here.... Let it out...." He can't understand my words, but he knows what I'm saying.

He eventually stops crying, but we stay locked in our embrace.

We must have fallen asleep like that because the next thing I know, Hungary is shaking my shoulder, telling me, "It's time."

 

 

She takes me to a room upstairs. Some sort of operating theater. I don't know why Austria has an operating theater in his house. Or an infirmary, for that matter. Or an X-ray. Oh, well. It's been very convenient, so I won't judge him.

I dress in a sterile hospital gown. I hate these things, but I have no choice. Mom, Hungary, and Canada are going to poke around inside my chest. "Sorry," Canada apologizes as he inserts an IV into my arm. "I know you're not fond of needles."

"It's okay," I answer, but I'm still grumbling. I don't want surgery. I know why it's necessary, but it  _hurts_.

"You're gonna be fine, sweetheart," Mom tells me, kissing my forehead. I smile at her in response, trying to be reassured. She checks the IV bag. "Ooh, this is the good stuff," she says. "You're gonna be  _so_  out of it." I manage a laugh; that actually did make me feel better. Mom knows just how to lighten the mood.

Canada pulls a mask over my face, securing it over my mouth and nose. "See you on the other side, kiddo."

 

 

A scene unfolds in black and white like an old movie. A man carries his daughter into a hospital. She wrinkles her nose at the sterile odor, burying her face in her father's jacket to smell his cologne. She's young—a toddler. Four or five years old, maybe.

"Ready to meet your baby sister?" the man asks, giving the child a playful bounce. His voice sounds slightly distorted.

"I dunno," she answers. "I've never had one before."

He chuckles. "You two are going to be best friends; I can tell."

They reach a room, and the father knocks on the door before entering. A woman is on a cot holding a small bundle of cloths, and she smiles fondly at the visitors. Her hair is tied up in a messy knot on her head, and she looks extremely tired but very, very happy. "The doctors say she's going to make it," she says. "You had us worried there for a while, didn't you, Renae?" In answer, the infant coos.

"That's great! Three months early—I guess she was just ready to see the world!" The father sets the girl on her mother's bed, and she crawls up to peer at the baby. "Isn't she beautiful, Issa?" he asks as he sits next to his wife, staring lovingly at the newborn.

The girl makes a face. "Looks like a blob."

"All babies look like that when they're born," the mother explains smiling. "She'll grow out of her blobishness."

"Hm," the girl says, unimpressed.

They stay for a while before a nurse comes in and takes the infant away. The father hugs the mother before scooping up his eldest daughter and leaving.

As they leave the hospital, he turns into a narrow alleyway. "Mommy said to always stay on the sidewalks," the girl scolds.

"It's quicker this way," he dismisses.

He's right. Everything happens so fast.

They walk for a few minutes before footsteps sound behind them. "Stop," a voice commands. He turns, and there's a man standing behind them with a skiing mask on. He holds a silvery thing in his hand that's shaped like a capitol L. "Give me your wallet."

The father slowly puts his daughter down, and he complies. "I—I don't—I don't have any money," he stammers, showing him the inside.

The stranger's response to that is instantaneous.

 ** _BANG_**.

The girl's frightened shriek and the father's scream of pain echo in dissonance throughout the alley, muffling the tap of the robber's retreating footsteps.

He lays on the ground, wincing and gasping for breath. It's obvious he's trying to keep it together for the sake of his daughter. "Daddy?! Daddy?!" she calls out, crying. She pulls at his jacket, causing him to yelp.

"Issa," he manages, touching her face with a bloodstained hand. "Issa, go to the street. Go get help. I love you."

The scene blurs around the girl as she obeys, running as fast as she can towards the alley's entry. Tall silhouettes pass her, even as she begs for help, until finally, someone stoops down, probably to ask what's wrong, but his words are distorted. The stranger's face is blurry, but she remembers the orange color of his hair, which stands out amongst the black and white. She remembers that, as soon as the man touches her face to examine the bloody handprint, a shock passes through her. She doesn't care, though. She urges him to help, and then she runs back to her father's side.

He's dead by the time she returns.

The quality of sound gets worse as I continue to watch until it's nothing but a dull roar. She pulls on his arm, crying, trying to get him to open his eyes. She buries her face in his jacket to smell his cologne, but all she smells is the rusty, metallic scent she later learns is blood.

The Good Samaritan finally pulls her away from the body, even though she fights it at first. He was traveling with a group of other people, and one of them leaves to get the police. Most of his companions watch with pity for a while before moving on, but the first man stays, letting the girl sob into his shirt. She remembers how he smells—like spaghetti sauce and the bittersweet coffee her mother drinks. She later learns the name for them—garlic and cappuccino.

The scene blurs, a whirl of police questions and crying and relatives showing up all dressed in black. The robber is a young adult who was low on cash. He claims the gun misfired. They say that it wasn't an accident, and he goes to jail, where he is killed within the month, bludgeoned to death by another inmate over a pack of cigarettes.

A lot of people bring flowers. The girl, dressed in black, standing by a big hole in the ground with her mother and baby sister, holds a bouquet to her face to smell the flowers. She wonders who the man was that helped her. For a long time after the incident, she refuses to eat anything with garlic in it, and, whenever her mom makes cappuccinos, she leaves the room.

She never sees that man again.

Until very recently. Until the day her dad died becomes the  _second_  worst day of her life.

 

 

"Look, she's waking up," someone says. "Good morning, sleeping beauty." I make myself open my eyes. Mom and Renae are sitting next to me.

I weakly tug up the corners of my mouth. "Hi, there."

"How do you feel?" Mom asks.

"Enh," I answer. She was right—I am pretty out of it. Oh, yeah—she can't understand me. But I guess my two answers are pretty universal. Canada's here, too, so he would've translated if I said something more complex. Which I probably can't, right about now.

"Check this out," Renae says excitedly. She reaches for something on the bedside table next to me. "Look, look, look." She holds out a white object about the length of from my wrist to my fingertip. It's conical and curvy, and it ends in a sharp point. Around the base is a metal band with a dim, blinking green light.

"Renae, that's not a toy," Mom scolds.

"Is that—?" I manage.

"Isn't it cool, though?" Renae exclaims.

"The X-ray showed an object on your rib," Canada explains. "We didn't know it went all the way around it. The only way to get it off you was to... take off the entire rib. Sorry."

"That's so  _metal_ ," I gasp, reaching to take the bone from Renae.

"You're not upset?"

"No! This is so cool!" I turn my rib around in my hand, even though my fingers are heavy with fatigue. "Can you turn this into a spear, or something?"

He chuckles. "No, sorry. We have to get rid of it. Your mom just thought you'd like to see it."

I twist it around in my hands again before handing it off to Canada. He smiles at me again and takes it away. "That was the only complication," Mom tells me. "You're gonna be just fine."

I nod, smiling again. "'M tired," I say, yawning.

"You're sleepy?" Mom guesses, and I nod. "Okay, sweetheart, get some rest."

She doesn't need to tell me twice.

 

 

The next time I wake, it's dark in the room. I'm still numb, but discomfort wells in me. I don't like the dark anymore. I can't see where I am. I need to know I'm not in Berlin or Venice. It scares me badly enough that I struggle to sit up.

I yelp in surprise when a voice speaks out, "Oh, you're awake!"

It's Lauren. I haven't gotten used to her voice yet. "Can you turn on the light?" I ask.

"Sure," she says, and I hear her bare feet plod against the floor. "Just gotta find it first.... There it is!" The lights flash on, and I blink to get used to it.

"Th—thanks...," I say, leaning back against the cot.

A few cots away, Dimah's little sister, who's recovering from a stab wound to the stomach, stirs. Dimah's there, too, but he stays still. Lauren says something in a different language, and she flicks off one of the lights so that half the room is illuminated and the other is dark. England is still there, laying in the darkened half of the room. If he's awake, he doesn't show it.

"You speak Russian?" I ask.

"I speak a lot of languages," Lauren says, sitting on the edge of my bed, which I don't protest. "My parents started me off early, and I always thought it was fun, finding different ways to talk, so I just didn't stop. A bunch of languages have the same root words."

"How many do you speak?"

"Let's see... English and Japanese, obviously... Spanish, French, Russian... and I'm learning Mandarin."

"That's a lot," I say, impressed.

"Hey, you've got two down."

"Kinda." I forgot—that's hard to explain without all the details, which I'm obviously not supposed to share. Quickly, I change the subject, "So you can speak to pretty much everyone here."

"You can't?"

"No, a lot of us don't speak Japanese or English."

"How do you all communicate, then?"

"Uh, we go through someone who speaks both. It's like a game." I sigh. "A long, tedious game."

"So, what is this place?" she asks, looking around. "I haven't been out a lot, but I've seen some."

"I—um...." I don't know what to say. "It's...a safe house. Except it's probably not so safe anymore, now that he knows I'm here...."

She shifts slightly towards me. "That must be really scary...."

"Yeah. I feel like a fish in a barrel." I fiddle with the bandage over my knuckles, a new habit I've picked up. "...An easy target.... Like he's out there... waiting to strike...."

"What are you gonna do about it?" she asks quietly.

I shake my head. "I have no idea. I'd still be there with him if it weren't for the help I've gotten from all the countr—." I quickly stop myself.

"Countries?" she guesses.

"Countrymen?" I try to amend.

She doesn't buy it. "No, you were going to say countries," she says.

"I'm hopped up on morphine—don't listen to anything I say," I try.

She smiles a little and shakes her head. "Sorry. It's just—... this is going to sound dumb.... I watch this show about countries; it's like a parody of WWII, which sounds weird and bad, but it's kind of funny in a dumb way...."

"Hetalia," I nod. "I know about it."

"It's just that... all the people I've seen here kind of look like characters. And their names are the same as each character." I know she's watching my reaction, so I try not to show any expression, but she grins. "Is that it?"

I'm torn between being annoyed that she pressed it and impressed that she actually figured it out. "...Immortal personifications of the countries... sounds... impossible... doesn't it?"

"Mm. But I might have teleported yesterday—that's also impossible, right?"

I hesitate, but eventually, "...Okay, but if Hungary asks, I didn't tell you."

Her grin widens. "You  _didn't_  tell me; I  _guessed_."

I'm so glad to have someone to talk to about it, and I hear the words rush out. "It's just that, a few weeks ago, I thought Hetalia was just a stupid anime, and then Germany, Japan, and Italy walk into my school and  _kidnap_  me, and things happen there,  _bad_  things, and  _Prussia_  helps me escape and brings me to  _England_ , and he takes me to  _America_  and  _Canada_ , and then I meet Russia and China and France, and then Romano, and then Austria and Hungary...! It's just—if all these horrible things weren't happening, I'd be having the time of my  _life_! But  _no_! Germany  _hates_  me and wants to destroy the  _world_!" I stop and take a few deep breaths. "I'm sorry—I'm kind of rambling...."

"So—the Axis is evil and wants to destroy the world," she summarizes. "I mean, the Axis was evil  _before_ , so nothing's changed about them."

"That's the thing—I have no idea." I shake my head. " _Germany_  definitely is evil, and probably Japan, but It—Italy... seemed very neutral about it. Like he didn't like what was happening to us, but he wouldn't help us, either." Suddenly, I remember—my dream. " _Italy_!" I exclaim. "I have to find a country— I have to find a country  _now_."

Lauren is surprised by my sudden intensity. "Hey—whoa, you just had  _surgery_ —don't get up!" But she doesn't touch me as I yank the IV needle out of my arm and get up, stumbling towards the door. I almost collapse, but Lauren catches me. "Seriously—you need to lay down...."

"I  _can't_ ," I insist, still struggling to walk. "This is  _important_."

"Okay," Lauren says, and she helps me down the stairs. There's normally someone down there since the time zones are all over the place.

America is up, sprawled out on the couch and playing a DS. "America!" I call, trying to rush to him.

"Whoa! Dude, you should  _not_  be—," he notices Lauren, and he realizes that he responded to his country name. "I—I mean—Who's America? Why would you call me that?"

If this weren't so urgent, I would've laughed at his tactlessness. He gets up, and I let go of Lauren to grasps his arms. "It's Italy. America, it's  _Italy_."

"What about Italy?" he asks, side-eyeing Lauren.

"The first country I touched. It wasn't Germany—it was  _Italy_."

His eyes widen in realization, and he cusses. "Oh, boy. That's not good."

"We have to go—we have to get him away from Germany."

"I know—I know...." He seems lost in thought, trying to make a plan. Something clicks with him. "Sit down! You got in a knife fight yesterday and lost because you were asleep."

I nod and allow him to usher me onto the couch. Lauren, seeming slightly stunned, follows and plops next to me. America gives her a worried glance, and she manages, "...Hi."

He gives a distracted nod of acknowledgement before announcing, "Okay, I'll be right back." He takes two long steps away, pauses, and turns back around. "Don't move. Stay there. Like, right there in that spot." When I nod, he turns again and runs up the stairs.

"First country you touched?" Lauren asks.

"That's—mm." I shake my head. "I—I dunno if I should tell you about it...."

"That's okay; I understand."

I can't stop myself. I just let it all out. "It's just— I'm dangerous. Like, apparently my blood explodes if it's mixed with the right ingredients, and that's one of the few things that can actually kill a nation. Another ingredient—or maybe it's just a two-ingredient thing, I dunno; I don't actually have the bomb-making recipe—whatever—it's the blood of the first nation I've made physical contact with. And I  _thought_  it was Germany, when he kidnapped me a few weeks ago. But I just remembered—it's  _Italy_ , when I was really,  _really_  young. My dad was killed, and Italy helped me. And the problem with  _that_  is—."

"Italy's with Germany, probably," she finishes. "So he has access to his blood."

"Yeah," I nod, leaning back against the armrest because I'm getting lightheaded.

"Is that why they took you?"

"Yeah, the second time."

"They've kidnapped you more than once?!"

I smile at her sympathy. "Yeah. Wasn't fun. The first time, they were doing...  _something_... with other kids who look like the Allies. The thing is, they thought I looked like  _America_ , but I'm actually supposed to look like  _Canada_. But they didn't know that. I—I guess I wasn't even supposed to be in this mess in the  _first_  place, which makes me really mad if I think about it for too long. And that's why there's so many people with such a communication barrier—the kids they took don't all speak one language, so they have their counterpart here to translate." I take another few deep breaths. "I feel like I'm overwhelming you," I admit.

"No, I'm glad you're sharing with me," Lauren smiles, gently patting my ankle, which rests close to her. "I'm  _supposed_  to be here—I can  _feel_  it. And I know I can help, so I'm glad I can know the whole story."

I sigh, pressing my lips together. "...It's not too late for you," I tell her quietly. "You can still leave without getting hurt.... Pretend this was just a bad dream...."

She considers it. Then, taking my hand, "Listen. This seems  _really_  important. End-of-the-world kind of important. If I can help, even just a  _little_  bit—which I think I  _can_ — how can I just walk away?"

"But what can you do?" I try to reason. "Can't go up to them and say, 'hey, knock it off, please.' We know—we  _tried_. It's just...." I sigh, debating on whether I should squeeze her hand or move mine away, "...People have gotten hurt because of me. I—I really don't want that to happen to you...."

"I think.... Maybe I can help  _you_." She smiles softly. "You need a friend—I can tell by the way you just poured your heart out to a complete stranger. And don't think I didn't notice  _these_ ," she adds, gently tapping the bandage on my wrist.

"I'm—...not good at friends," I feebly protest. She's right. She saw right through me, and she genuinely thinks she can help. Throughout our conversation, I felt myself growing more and more attached to Lauren. She wants to stay—she wants to risk herself to be my friend. And... as selfish as I feel for even thinking this... I want her to.

"Neither am I," she admits. "But I'm willing to make an effort."

"...I can't ask you to do this."

"You don't have to." She squeezes my hand. "Now all we need to do is convince the countries."

Speak of the devils. Canada rushes towards me, followed by Austria, Hungary, and America. "I've got some words for you about leaving the infirmary while you're still really weak, but those can wait. Tell me everything." He seems to notice Lauren, and he gets nervous. "Uh, maybe you should...."

"It's okay, Canada," I assure him. "I—I think she should stay."

He presses his lips together. "...Later. We'll talk about this later."

"C'mon, zombie girl," America says, nodding towards Lauren, "let's put you back where we found you."

"Outside?"

"No, I—I meant— y'know, in the infirmary." She looks low-key excited, like she's meeting a celebrity but wants to play it cool. Which, I guess, she is. We exchange a nod, and she leaves.

"This is serious, Isabella," Austria says as soon as Lauren is out of earshot. "If you're right about this, we have to get Italy away from Germany without alerting him of this news. That will be very dangerous. If you're wrong, and we try to extract him, one of us could get hurt."

Damn. Austria pulling no punches, as usual. No pressure. "I—I," I stutter. "It's an early memory— I only remember bits and pieces because it was emotional and scary and I was four—and now that I'm saying this I—I realize that the only thing I have to go on is the fact that a guy's hair was red and he smelled like garlic and cappuccino, so now I'm not so sure, now that you say it like that...." My voice gets quieter as my rant dies, and I nervously fiddle with the bandage on my hand. I'm still not sure why Austria frightens me so much.

"That's not much to go on," Canada agrees, "but anything you remember is good to know."

"Well, we cannot just strike without all the facts," Austria retorts. "It could be a wild goose chase. A  _dangerous_  one."

"I—I remember that he shocked me," I speak up. I don't think I've told them that theory. "Every time I touch a country for the first time, it shocks me. Like, um." I hold my hand awkwardly out towards Austria, since I haven't had physical contact with him yet. He isn't sure what I'm doing at first, but then he reaches out to touch my hand. He yanks his arm away when I'm right. "Germany and Japan both shocked me. But Italy didn't. And he's a touchy guy—I would've noticed, I—I think."

"But all of this happened while you were emotionally distraught," Austria reasons.

"But if she's right, we can stop him from taking Italy's blood before he figures it out," America says.

A thought occurs to me. "Prussia!"

Austria wrinkles his nose. "What about him?"

"He helped me escape the first time, and, as far as I know, Germany doesn't know it was him. He's on the inside—maybe he could help!"

"And what if Prussia doesn't comply?"

"If he doesn't want to help you, let me convince him."

"What if Italy doesn't comply?"

"He's not going to," I say, dropping my gaze to the floor. "Use force."

 

 

It's, like, 3am, but they still call Prussia's cell phone. I keep rehearsing things in my head— things like, "Hi, remember me? You saved my life that one time, and, not to be needy, but we'd like you to risk your safety again. You in?"

But when he picks up and Canada makes the request, his immediate response is, "Hell yeah, I'll help. West is really freaking me out."

Prussia says he'll get Italy and be there soon. So, all we have to do is wait. "That was easier than I expected," Austria muses.

"You always expect the worst of him," Hungary says. "He's not as bad as you think." Austria sneers in answer, but he doesn't say anything else.

"I don't know how you expect to get better while you keep doing things you  _know_  are going to hurt you," Canada scolds me, helping me back to the infirmary.

"It was important," I answer in defense.

"I guess," he relents. "Still, let me check your stitches to make sure they haven't broken."

So I lay down on my cot, pull a blanket over my lap, and let Canada see under the hospital gown. He peels back the adhesive bandage and sighs. "Ripped 'em," he reports. "You really need to let yourself heal, Issa."

"I know," I answer. I didn't even realize I tore them. "It was important, though. It won't happen again."

"Promise?" he asks as he starts threading the needle with sterile thread.

"Unless something else important happens."

"Define 'important.'"

"Something bad happening," I respond. "Life or death situations."

"I suppose that's all right, then." He fills a syringe and pokes the skin around the incisions, numbing them slightly. "Sorry," he says as I wince, and he starts to stitch me back up.

"So, how's everything?" Lauren asks, walking up and sitting on the edge of my bed. "Ooh, that looks gross," she comments at my injuries.

Canada didn't hear her coming, so he flinches. Luckily, he doesn't yank on the string. Regaining his composure, "Everything's fine."

"I think she should stay," I tell him.

"That's really not a good idea...."

"She already knows."

He jumps again, glancing at her, and then at me. "You told—?"

Lauren comes to my rescue. "No, she didn't. I guessed. It would help if you guys chose different human names. That was a dead giveaway."

"This whole 'Hetalia' thing is just a huge mess," he complains, focusing on stitching me back up.

"Tell me about it."

He doesn't say anything for a while. Then, "... Look, even if I thought it was a good idea for you to stay, it's not really my decision. It's Austria's."

"Mm, yeah," Lauren agrees. "He's kind of a grouch."

"He's a  _hoarder_ ," I add. "Could you even have  _guessed_  that?"

"Really?" she asks, giggling a little bit. "Mister fancy-pants is a collector?"

"Yeah. I mean, I probably should've guessed when I saw he had an infirmary in his own house. But he's got all this medical equipment, and there's a lot of rooms filled with, like,  _junk_. I don't know what he's doing with it all, honestly."

"That's pretty convenient, I guess." She's silent for a while, watching Canada work with morbid curiosity. "Any ideas on how to get on his good side?"

"...Well," Canada says slowly. "He's very logical. You keep saying you can help us; prove to him that you're an asset."

She thinks for a minute, seeming crestfallen. "It probably won't be enough to just say I'm here to be your friend...."

"No, probably not," I agree.

"I can't think of anything else I can do," she says. "But I'm here for a  _reason_ —I  _must_  be! There's no other explanation as to how I got here the way I did!"

Canada finishes, and he applies a fresh bandage. He also hands me some pills and a cup of water. "Some antibiotics and painkillers," he explains. "Probably shouldn't keep you on morphine for too long."

"Thanks," I say, taking the medicine.

Across the room, England whines, weakly struggling against his restraints. He's done this before. Wake up, cry and scream, and then go back to sleep.

"...Is that who I think it is?" Lauren asks. When I nod, she grins, and then frowns. "Why's he tied up? Is he bad, too?"

"No—no, he's great," I reply. "He was with me when I crashed, and then they took him too, and they did something to him.... Now he doesn't recognize anyone, and he'll throw a tantrum if anyone gets too close to him."

"Crashed?"

"Yeah—I didn't tell you? England was driving, and they purposely drove into us. That's how I got so hurt." I make a gesture vaguely at my body. "They abducted him, too. Messed with his brain...."

Lauren processes this. "That's really sad.... He's my favorite character...."

"Yeah, he's pretty high up on my list, too," I say. Gently nudging Canada, "You're my favorite, though."

He smiles genuinely. "I'm honored."

We're quiet for a while. Then, Lauren speaks up. "...Guys, he's staring at me...."

He  _is_. Normally, he refuses to look at anyone. He scrunches his eyes closed and shrieks like we're going to hurt him. But now, he looks intently at Lauren, seeming calmer than he's been in a long while.

"Hey, there, Arthur," Canada says, speaking gently. England whimpers, starting to fight against his bonds again.

"It's okay," Lauren tries, slowly standing up. "No one's going to hurt you...." He opens his eyes again, stilling.

Slowly, she walks closer, and he doesn't object. Incredulous, Canada pats my shoulder and whispers, "I'll get Hungary," before leaving.

England just watches Lauren until she's at the foot of his bed. She stops moving when he starts to nervously try to scoot away from her. He speaks for the first time in days, so quietly it's almost inaudible. "...You're different from the others...."

"Am I?" she questions. "How so?"

"I dunno," he answers, voice shaking. "I—I dunno. You just are."

"May I sit?" she asks, gesturing to the cot next to his. He doesn't object, so she does. "Are you frightened of me?"

"Yes," he breathes without hesitation.

"Why?"

"I don't know— _I don't know_!" He's starting to get upset again. I wince, waiting for him to start screaming.

Lauren slowly starts to move away. "It's okay—it's all right.... Will you describe to me what you see?"

England sobs pathetically. "M—monsters. Everywhere— _monsters_."

"Do I look like a monster to you?"

He nods shakily. "...There's—... there's something...  _different..._  about you, though...."

"A good different or a bad different?"

"I don't know!"

Lauren tries to calm him again, and Hungary and Canada walk in again, some other nations trailing. "He's talking?" Hungary asks.

"Yeah—but only to Lauren," I answer.

"Do you want to sleep?" Lauren asks. England nods plaintively. "Okay. I hope you feel better." He closes his eyes and turns slightly away, facing the wall.

"How did you do that?" Hungary asks immediately.

"I dunno," she answers. "He kept staring at me, so I started talking to him, and he wasn't too terribly scared...." She glances back at him. "He said he sees monsters...."

Hungary scribbles notes on a clipboard. Lauren sits on my bed again. "Hey, look," I tease, nudging her with my leg, "you  _are_  useful."

She smiles. "Maybe I could get him back to normal if I'm the only one he'll talk to." She looks at him again, looking pleased. "You know, there's been a boy hanging around that looks just like him."

"Josh?" I ask.

"Yeah. He watched you sleep for a while. I told him that was kind of creepy, and he got embarrassed and left." She pokes my leg. "I think he likes you."

I consider this, a little bit confused. "...Well... he was kidnapped at the same time I was, and we were the only two who spoke English, so we did bond a little...."

"Do you like him?"

"I dunno," I answer truthfully. "I haven't really thought about it. Plus, I'm a little too busy to have a boyfriend at the moment." I sigh, shifting a little bit to face her more. "Actually, that's gotten me in trouble," I admit. "Zack—have you met him? America's lookalike?"

She nods. "Yeah, he came to see you, too."

"Well, he was... he said he was attracted to me? I think it's just because he thinks I saved his life, and he thought I was giving him signals, or something.... And he kissed me, and I freaked out, and that's why England and I were driving the night we crashed.... Because I was upset, and England thought going on a drive would calm me...."

"Oh, yikes," Lauren winces.

"Yeah, he took it really hard," I agree. "I mean, I'm not mad at him. I—I was—..." I sigh. "There's no other way around this.... I was r—raped by someone in Berlin...." She opens her mouth to say something, and I shake my head. "It's okay—I'm fine, I guess. But I didn't tell Zack that because I didn't want him to ask questions, which backfired on me, I suppose."

"That's messed up," she says. "He shouldn't have tried that."

"I know," I assure her. "But he didn't know. And he was under the impression I was... flirting, maybe? I mean, I don't think I was. I just thought I was being friendly."

"He should have at least asked permission."

"Yeah.... But I've forgiven him. It's in the past now." I sigh again. "The thing is, we're in this together, whether we like it or not. We're gonna need to help each other out. I don't know how long this will last. This is all so awful—I just don't think any of us could use any more negativity than we already have."

"Wow," Lauren says. "I think I'd be a lot angrier, if it were me."

"I'm tired of being angry," I answer.

"Well, okay." She smiles a little and pats my leg. "I admire your positivity."

"Thanks."

The door to the infirmary is open, so we all hear the front door slam open. I flinch and sit up, and I'm about to get up and hide when Lauren stops me. "Wait—I'll check first." She goes to the door and peeks down the stairs. "I think that's Prussia and Italy!" she reports.

I relax, leaning back on the bed. I can hear him now—Italy. He's shrieking like he's being attacked. I suppose he would feel that way.

"I'm sorry!" he keeps wailing. "Germany said he needed help with something, a—and by the time I knew he was doing something bad, I was too scared to leave! Don't hurt me!"

"We're not going to hurt you, Feli," I hear Hungary say soothingly.

"Speak for yourself," I mutter, mostly to Lauren. "Will you close the door? I—I don't really want to listen to this...."

"Sure," she says, and she does.

I forgot about Dimah and his sisters—they all have been hanging out in here because the littlest one is hurt. Dimah raises his head and quickly stands, earning a questioning stare from his sisters. I see his expression morph from surprise to anger, and he starts for the door. Lauren says something to him in Russian, and he answers, and she tries to stop him from leaving, but he pushes past her and exits. After a few moments, I hear Italy shriek again. Dimah reappears, and Lauren seems to be scolding him, but he doesn't listen to her.

I can talk to Dimah now since he's mostly-fluent in Japanese. "What did you do?" He glances at me and shrugs. 

"Punched Italy," Lauren confirms. "Kinda looks like he broke his nose, actually."

"I don't blame you." Catching Dimah's gaze, I smile and give a single nod of approval. The corner of his mouth twitches up, and he sits back with his sisters, talking to them quietly.

"You're really that mad at him?" Lauren asks.

"...Yes, I—I think." I'm silent for a moment trying to process my feelings. "Maybe I shouldn't be. But I am. I've wondered who he was for my entire life—and he turns out to be a coward who wouldn't stand up for what's right. He helped me when I was a kid, but he didn't help when they literally threatened my life. Like, if I could have chosen when I wanted his help—I wasn't in any danger when my dad died—I could've gotten someone else to help me. There wasn't anyone to help me when I actually needed it, you know? Except for Prussia." I sigh, rubbing my eyes. "A part of me wants to forgive him because of what he did for me when I was little. But... I—I...  _can't_."

"That's okay," Lauren assures me. "You don't have to forgive everyone."

"The pacifist in me says I do...."

"But you deserve time to heal," she reasons. "Maybe he never laid a hand on you, but he didn't stop the others from doing it. In my book, that's just as bad."

The door opens, and Hungary leads Italy in. His nose is crooked and bleeding, and he's crying. He freezes when he sees me and Dimah, and he turns around to try to leave, but Hungary stop him. "I have to set your nose." So, reluctantly, he stays.

Dimah stands again, looking furious. Lauren goes over to him to try to talk him down, and they stand there arguing for a while. Even though he can speak in Japanese, Dimah prefers Russian.

"I—I'm sorry," Italy tells me quietly. "I—I didn't know that he'd hurt you— I—I just thought—."

I feel my expression twist slightly in anger. " _What_?" I interrupt. " _What_  did you think?"

"My friends wanted my h—help!" he tries. "I—I didn't know it was anything  _bad_!"

"When did you realize it wasn't okay?!" I push back tears. I don't want to cry anymore. "The  _stalking_? The  _kidnapping_? All the times he  _hit_  me?" My voice cracks. "If you knew it was wrong, why didn't you  _help_  us?!"

"I was s—scared!" he wails. "I've never seen either of them like that!"

" _I_  was scared!" I shout back. "I was  _scared_  and  _hurt_  and completely  _helpless_! And you did  _nothing_!"

"I'm  _sorry_ ," he sobs. " _I'm sorry_."

"Go  _fu_ —."

"Issa," Hungary interrupts. "That's enough." She wipes Italy's bleeding nose with a tissue, and she puts it in a little bag. I suppose they should thank Dimah for letting them get Italy's blood sample so quickly. Then, she quickly bends his nose so it points the right way, ignoring the way he squeals in pain.

Italy starts to leave. He hesitates by the door. Turning back to me, "I'm sorry, Issa—I'm really,  _really_ —."

" _Don't_ ," I snarl. "You're  _not_  allowed to call me that."

Giving me a last plaintive look, he scampers away. Canada sits next to me, putting his hand over mine. "...That was a little bit... harsh."

I huff, pulling my hand away. "You're the one saying I need to let myself heal," I remind him. "Let me be angry. I need to  _grieve_. I need to feel this way. I—I'll get over it eventually, but—... it'll take a while."


	10. Helping

**POV CHANGE: ALEX**

The cold air seems to pass right through Alex's body, and he shivers. "How close is he?" his companion's voice asks. 

"Close," Alex answers. He can feel their target. His presence makes his ears ring, makes the air around him thicker. The closer Alex is to one of them, the harder it is to breath. He takes a deep breath, shuddering at the uncomfortable feeling, and he adds, "Very close." He's been doing this for so long he can almost pinpoint their locations if he's in a small enough radius. "That store, I think." Alex nods at a grocery store across the street. 

The other man tugs on Alex's arm to make him follow, but it's not like he'll disobey. He knows the consequences of insubordination.

Their target is a man with dark hair, glasses, and a mole. They've chased this particular one before; each one feels different, and Alex recognizes this man's aura. Well, the target isn't exactly a man, but Alex isn't sure what else to call him. Their target picks up a bottle of wine, sighs, and puts it back, picking out a stronger alcohol. Apart from the single bottle of booze, it looks like he's buying in bulk; as far as Alex knows, all of their targets live alone, so it doesn't make sense that he seems to be buying in bulk. 

 _Please don't disappear,_  Alex thinks desperately.

The other man walks up to the target and tries to make conversation. "Ah, a man of good taste," he says, pointing at the bottle of whisky in his basket.

"Hm," the other says simply. Oh, right. This one isn't that friendly.

"Something troubling you, friend?" he asks.

The target considers the alcohol he's buying. "...I suppose I have been rather stressed lately."

"There's a bar just down the street," he offers. "Come—I'll pay."

"No, thank you," he answers politely. "I'm rather busy at the moment."

"I insist!" he tries, but the target refuses once more.

As the target turns around, he catches sight of Alex. He seems to recognize him. "Feliciano! What are you—." But he stops himself as he continues to examine him. "Apologies," he tells him. "I mistook you for someone else."

Alex remains silent. It's forbidden to speak to the targets.

His companion grabs a bottle of vodka so it doesn't look suspicious, and he follows the target to the checkout. The man pays and leaves. He gives Alex a look, and he understand. He knows the drill: Follow the target, try to see if he can tell where he's going.

He trail at a safe distance, and, as always, he consider running away, leaving this life behind him. God knows he's  _miserable_. But he  _can't_. He can't leave Rin and Sydney. They need me just as much as I need them.

So I behave myself, even though I know this chase is pointless.

The target gets in a car, and my heart sinks. I won't be able to follow after this. Desperately, I try to memorize the license plate number, but my head is still fuzzy—I haven't fully recovered from a concussion I recently received.

" _Well_?!" my companion hisses at me as he catches up.

"H—he got into a car—I couldn't—."

He interrupts me. "License plate?"

I try to remember it—I really  _try_ — "Th—there was a three...and a s—six.... No, it was a nine...."

He curls his hand into a fist, but we're in public—he can't afford to hit me right now. The beating will come later. "Come on," he orders instead, walking in the direction of the rental car. I sit in the back seat while he drives. Right now, we've set up base near an air strip. All our bases are near small-ish airports; how else are we supposed to travel such long distances?

I wish the drive would be longer. I don't want to endure the punishment. But we arrive.

I get out of the car so he doesn't drag me. Like I expected, his fist smashes into the side of my face, hard enough to knock me to the ground. Only a moment passes before he kicks me. Then, he lifts me to my feet and throws me face-first into the side of the car.

I know better than to fight back. Plus, even if I did fight, I'm much too weak. He hardly feeds us, leaving us constantly light-headed.

" _Useless boy!_ " he shouts, grabbing a handful of my hair. I pointed out one time that I  _wasn't_  useless—I did what I was told—I led him to the target. It's really  _his_  fault that the target gets away  _every single time_. Needless to say, he hurt me so badly that I couldn't go on any hunts for a long while.

He grabs my left wrist. He's so strong, and my weak, malnourished bones are so brittle that I hear a sickening  _snap_ , and excruciating pain blocks out all my other senses. I yell in agony, and he shoves something in my mouth to try to silence me. He normally sets up camp far enough away that no one can hear us screaming, but we're a little bit in earshot of the airstrip, and he doesn't want anyone coming to check on us.

One of his cronies that holds down the fort while he's gone picks me up, almost carrying me because of how limp I am. He drags me to where they're keeping Sydney and Rin—the attic of a log cabin they're renting. He unlocks the door long enough to throw me in, and then he seals me in.

Immediately, my friends are by my side, trying to comfort me as I writhe in pain. I bite down hard on the cloth still stuck in my mouth, suppressing the sounds of distress I can't hold back. "Alex—Alex, what's wrong? What hurts?" Sydney asks, her hand on my back.

"Look at his wrist," Rin points out.

Sydney gasps. "Oh, Alex...." I manage to open my streaming eyes to look, and I immediately wish I didn't. My broken bone has pierced through my skin, leaking blood all over my clothes.

"Here." Rin unwinds the long bandage around her forearm. It had covered a long, deep gash in her arm that he inflicted about a week ago.

"Rin, you need that," Sydney protests.

"He needs it more," she insists. "Hold him. This will hurt."

Sydney's arms wrap around me tightly, her hand holding my arm out so I can't jerk away. I let out a few muffled objections that they can't understand through the gag. I know she's only trying to help, but I don't want any more pain.

"I'm sorry, Alex," Rin tells me sincerely. Then, she firmly presses on my wrist to try to put the bone back where it's supposed to be. I scream so loudly that one of our captors bangs on the door and shouts at us to shut up. Rin binds my hand, trying to keep the broken bone from moving any more.

She moves to join the embrace. "It's okay," Sydney whispers. She gently pushes her fingers past my lips to pry the cloth from my mouth, and I hear my agonized sobs for the first time.

"It hurts," I whimper.

"I know, Alex...."

The first time he hit one of us, we were furious. We had insisted that he couldn't just do that to us—we were going to cooperate with him; there was no need to hurt us. He had responded by knocking us around so thoroughly that we each had a broken bone. Since then, we haven't complained.

Rin and Sydney help me walk over to the single mattress in the corner. Rin holds me, running her fingers through my hair. She gently traces the triangle-shaped scar on my forehead. We each have a scar on our faces. I'm lucky—I can hide mine behind my bangs. Rin's is a straight line on her right jawbone, around five centimeters long. Sydney's is much longer and more prominent—hers is a crescent curving around her left eye.

 _He_  did that to us. He wanted to  _mark_  us. If we ever escaped him, he wanted to make it much, much harder for us to hide. People usually notice three kids with facial scars, and if he pretends he's just a concerned family member, people help.

We don't know his name. It's been... three or four years since he kidnapped us. He did it because we're special. We can sense  _them_. We're like metal detectors. We lead him to them, but they always escape. Every time. It's like they just vanish into thin air. Like they were never there in the first place. And that  _enrages_  him. And he takes it out on us.

There was one girl before us. She had a horizontal cut across her left cheek. She had escaped, and he's always talking about what he'd like to do to her if he ever finds her again.

That's what gives me hope—she had escaped. We can, too.

I hardly remember my family. They think I'm dead. He spent a lot of money making it look like I had died in a tragic accident by burning my house down while I was home alone. He had bribed someone from the local morgue to plant a child-sized corpse in the ruins, and then he had them change the results of the DNA testing and the autopsy to make sure it looked like eleven-year-old Alesso Maroni had burned to death. I didn't know Sydney and Rin before all of this, but they confirmed that they had "died" in similar ways.

Eventually, I stop crying, but I don't move from the little dog-pile we're in. I don't bother complaining. It doesn't help—none of us can do anything about pain or homesickness. We might as well suffer in silence.

 

 

Through the window on the wall, we can see that it isn't until dusk that we hear someone stomping up the stairs. Our door creaks open. It's him. We sit up and wait for him to make a demand. When he speaks, we can tell he's wasted. He calls Rin a racial slur for Japanese people, and he orders, "C'mere."

All three of us stand up. We know what he and his buddies do to us when they're like this. When they're drunk, they're horny. Usually, they prefer me or Sydney—they like Sydney's long blonde hair, and they like my durability. Sydney's hair is a "handle," and I'm tough enough for them to...  _experiment_.

Rin is the youngest of us—she's only thirteen. "Take me, instead," I beg. A long time ago, while Rin was on one of his hunts, Sydney and I agreed to protect her as well as we could.

"I didn't  _ask_  for you," he snarls. He calls Rin the slur again, then adds, "Here.  _Now._ "

She's trembling from head to toe, and she's already starting to cry. Even so, she tells us quietly, "It's okay." Bravely, she leaves with him.

I clutch Sydney and sob. We both think of Rin as our sister. After everything we've been through together, we might as well be family. "Sh—she's gonna be okay," Sydney tries, even though her voice is shaking with anger. "She's okay—she can take it...."

Almost immediately after she says that, Rin cries out loudly from downstairs. I hear their voices jeer at her, enjoying her pain. This goes on for about a minute before I decide I can't bear to listen to this anymore. I pound my uninjured hand on the door. " _Rin_!  _RIN_!" Fruitlessly trying to break down the barrier, "Leave her  _alone_! Take me, instead!"

Instead of answering, they do something to her that makes her scream louder.

"Alex," Sydney sobs, grabbing my arm, "you're making it worse."

I clasp my hands over my ears, trying to block out the noise, but it doesn't work. The sound of Rin's cries is seared into my memories forever.

 

 

About two hours pass before they dump Rin's lifeless form in the room. Her clothes are hopelessly torn. He allows us to have one extra outfit each, and Sydney runs to retrieve Rin's before rushing to her side. "It's okay—it's okay—it's over—it's okay," she whispers. Rin's front is soaked with her blood—there's a long cut from her collarbone to her sternum. There's nothing we can really do about that because we don't have the right medical supplies, so I rip off a strip of her frayed shirt and press it against the wound.

Rin doesn't try to move. Her eyes are clenched shut, and tears stream down her face. She's shaking so badly. By the light of a dim lamp in the corner, we both help her dress, putting her new clothes over her tattered ones. It'll be warmer this way, too.

I want to pick her up and carry her to the mattress, but I'm hopelessly weak. "C—come on, Rin-Rin," I say, my voice gentle. "Let's get you comfortable." It takes her a while to respond, but she slowly nods, sluggishly pushing herself to sit up. She doesn't stand—she just scoots herself along the floor.

I tuck her under the thin, scratchy blanket we share. "We have to get out of here," I blurt.

Sydney sighs, stroking Rin's hair as she weeps. "Alex, we talked about this...."

"Look at us!" I whisper fiercely. "He's going to keep doing this to us until he  _kills_  us!"

I can tell she agrees with me, but she's always been very logical. "How would we even do it?"

I bury my face in my hands. They haven't given us an opportunity. Not once in the four years he's held us has he ever given us a single chance.

Suddenly, a loud sound echoes throughout the entire cabin. Thundersnow. I've only ever heard of this natural phenomenon. It's like a thunderstorm, but, instead of rain, it blizzards.

"That's it," I realize. Hope flickering through me, "That's it!"

"What?"

"The next time it thunders, we break the window. They won't hear it!"

She doesn't want to get her hopes up. "We're up so high."

"We'll climb down. We  _have_  to, Syd." I grab her hand. "We're getting out of here  _tonight_. Grab the lamp," I tell her. I would do it myself, but my wrist is broken.

She understands what I mean. Holding it upside-down so that the base is up, she stands by the window. "Wait," I interrupt. "We need to measure how long it is between the lightning and the thunder."

There—lightning. One. Two. Three. Fo—.  _BOOM_.

"Four seconds," Sydney confirms. Holding the lamp like a baseball bat, she waits. Flash. One. Two. Three.  _BOOM_. She slams the base of the lamp against the window, and the resulting noise is lost in the thunder. I see it splinter, but it's not broken yet.

"That's okay," I encourage. "Do it again on the next strike."

Flash. One. Two. Three.  _BOOM_. The crack in the glass grows, but it's not broken yet.

"Again."

Flash. One. Two. Three.  _BOOM_. The window looks like it's covered in cobwebs.

"Again!"

Flash. One. Two. Three.  _BOOM_. The thunder covers the dissonance of the glass shattering and falling onto the sloped roof.

I slap my hand over my mouth to keep myself from shouting in joy. "Rin!" I whisper joyously. "Rin, come on—we're leaving!"

She sits up, looking at me hopefully. "R—really?"

"Yes! We just gotta get down."

Sydney slings the backpack with our clothes in it over her shoulders. "I'll go first." She's excited. She clambers out of the window. "Careful, guys—there's glass. Whoa—." She grasps the window frame as she trips. "Slippery," she warns.

"C'mon, Rin-Rin," I whisper. "You next."

She gets up with great difficulty. I can tell it hurts her a lot to walk, but she grits her teeth and toughs through it without complaint. Sydney helps her exit. Finally, I scramble out. It's horribly cold, but I couldn't care less.

We stand at the edge of the sloped roof. "How do we get down?" Sydney whispers. There's no handholds anywhere.

"Jump," Rin inputs quietly. "Roll when you hit the ground."

"Rin, we're two stories up—we'll break our legs."

"Like this," she says. Before we can stop her, she leaps, as graceful as a professional gymnast. Just before she hits the ground, she turns herself so that she rolls as soon as she hits the snow. Then she stands up, completely unscathed from the fall.

We're quiet for a while. Then, Sydney murmurs, "I suppose the snow will help break the fall...."

"One way to find out."

"Together?"

"Together," I confirm.

"Count of three," she says as she slips her hand into mine. "...One."

"Two."

"Three!" we exclaim in unison, and we take the plunge.

The sense of weightlessness fills my stomach with fear, but I quickly hit the ground. Sydney rolls, but I forgot. I manage to muffle my whine as pain shoots up my leg.

"You were supposed to roll!" Sydney scolds me as she tries to assess the damage. "It's not broken," she concludes.

"Still hurts," I grumble, but, compared to the pain of my wrist, this is nothing.

"We have to go," she mumbles urgently. "Can you walk?" She helps me to my feet, and I wince, but the pain is manageable. "Okay, let's go, Rin." She stops, looking around frantically. "Rin? Rin?!"

"Shh, don't wake them up," I remind her. Still, I'm worried—where could she have gone?

The door to the cabin opens, and it feels like the air has been knocked out of me. No—no, he  _couldn't_  have noticed us this early in our escape—.

Sydney lets out a strangled sigh of relief. "Rin! Why were you in there?!" she questions furiously as Rin steps quietly out of the building.

Without answering, Rin hands us coats and hats, and she pushes a pistol into my hand, depositing a handful of bullets into the pocket of my new jacket. She gives Sydney a knife with a curved blade. She keeps the other knife for herself, tucking the weapon in her waistband.

I just gawk at her for a moment. After everything she's  _just_  been through, not three hours ago, she has the nerve to walk back in there and steal from them?! I would have just  _ran_!

Nonchalantly, she wraps a black scarf around her neck. Behind her, I suddenly notice the red and yellow flickering lights inside the house.

"Rin," Sydney manages, her voice much quieter than normal. "...What did you  _do_?"

In answer, Rin pulls something out of her pocket. She opens the top, and with her thumb, she flicks it so that a tiny flame appears.

Someone in the cabin screams, but the house is almost completely engulfed in fire. Sydney and I gape at it, horrified. My stare falls back to Rin, who is unfazed by the chaos happening behind her. By the illumination of the flame coming from the lighter, her eyes are glazed with tears, but her expression is completely calm. A tiny smirk seems to play on her lips.

Sydney and I have always tried so hard to protect Rin. But it turns out that she can protect herself just fine.

 

 

We flee into the forest in the middle of the blizzard. We walk all night, and then all day, stopping only to catch our breaths. When we get thirsty, we scoop up a handful of snow and let it melt in our mouths.

No one's said anything since Rin's fiery outburst. I think Sydney and I are just surprised—we've never seen this side of Rin—vengeful and remorseless. I didn't know she was capable of such violence. She's always been so quiet and calm. I just thought she was too terrified to try anything.

Finally, Sydney speaks up, her voice ringing through the dense foliage. "Okay, we're just not gonna talk about  _that_?! Rin, what  _was_  that back there?!"

Rin straightens up slightly as she walks. Completely void of emotion, she answers, "They deserved it."

"You—," Sydney manages, touching Rin's hand. "Rin—...you  _killed_  them!"

"So?"

"So—that's  _bad_!" She throws me a helpless look. "Alex, back me up!"

"Hey, I'm staying out of this," I say, holding up my hands.

"They shouldn't have hurt us," Rin replies, as calm as ever. Sydney starts trying to talk again, but she interrupts. "I'm not sorry." So Sydney seems to drop the issue.

Sydney's hair falls in her face, and she huffs, brushing it away with her fingers. "Y'know what?" she says, and she takes her knife out. Gathering her hair in her hands, she gets ready to cut it off.

"No, don't!" I protest.

"I hate my hair," she explains.

"I like it!" I reason. "It makes you  _you_. I can't imagine you without long hair."

She sighs, but she puts the weapon away. "You're lucky I value your opinion." She twists it up and tucks it into her hat.

We walk a bit more before we all freeze at the same time, an all-too-familiar sensation washing over us. "...You guys feel that?" I breathe. They nod.

"...Let's go there," Sydney says.

"What? No!" I protest. "These—these  _things_  have caused nothing but  _pain_! I don't want anything to do with them!"

"...They might be able to help," Rin suggests quietly. "We can tell them about him. Let them know about the danger they're in."

"Two to one," Sydney brags, lightly punching my arm.

I sigh, but I'm outnumbered. So we walk in the direction of the mysterious creatures until we reach a palatial building in the middle of a clearing. "What now?" I ask. "Walk up to the front door? They could be dangerous."

"Hm," Sydney thinks. "You're right. Maybe we should scope it out first."

"Sneaking in," I nod. "I like it." Rin nods, as well. So, we sit in the bushes and wait until nightfall before we infiltrate their hideout.

 

 

**POV CHANGE: ISSA**

Lauren is upset. She's still hanging out around me, keeping me company as I slowly heal, but I can tell she's worried. The countries have given her an ultimatum—she has a week to try to get England back to normal. If she can manage that, they'll let her stay. If she can't, she goes home.

The problem with that is the fact that England has decided that he hates her just as much as everyone else, if not more. Yesterday, Lauren had sat with him and pleaded with him to remember for so long that he started arguing with her. It wasn't like how England argued before this happened to him—he was still terrified and crying his eyes out, but he made the conscious decision that he doesn't like Lauren. He's not as scared of her as he is of the rest of us. He'll communicate with her. But he does so in childlike tantrums.

"Please, England," she had tried, but he interrupted her.

" _Please, England_ ," he mocked, putting on a falsetto and making a face.

"That's not funny."

" _That's not funny_."

That had gone on for a while before Lauren lost her patience with him. "Fine!  _Stay_  crazy! See if  _I_  care!" She had stomped back over to my bed and flopped across my lap so that her head and legs stuck out over either side of the cot, and she let out a pathetic whine.

Today, she's in a similar position. "I don't wanna talk to him," she complains.

"You have to," I remind her.

"Nnnnnnnnngh," she vocalizes, and she fakes thrashing around in displeasure. After a few moments of this, she pushes herself up. " _Fine_." She smooths her hair back and takes a deep breath. "He's confused and scared, and I need to help him," she reminds herself.

"You can do it," I encourage her.

She takes another calming breath, and then she confidently walks over to England's corner. An idea seems to pop into her head, and she goes to the counter. She retrieves a notebook and a pen, and she goes back to England. "Hi," she greets softly.

"Ngh," he answers, turning away slightly.

"Wanna do something fun?" England narrows his eyes, but he's intrigued. I bet he's as bored as I am, sitting here all day with nothing to do but heal. "I want you to draw what you see. Will you do that?"

I see him press his lips together, thinking. "You'll untie me?"

Lauren hesitates. She didn't witness him attacking anyone, but we told her about it, so she  _knows_  it's a bad idea. "...Can't you just draw like—?"

He interrupts her. " _No_ , I  _can't_. I need at least one hand."

"...I guess you're right." Still, she pauses. "You have to promise you'll be nice."

Looking  _far_  too eager, he nods vigorously.

As soon as she takes off one of his restraints, he lashes out and grabs a handful of her hair. She cries out in pain. England tries to smash her head against the wall, but Lauren's faster—she brings her fist down hard on his nose, and he lets go.

At that moment, I know that Lauren Cohen is  _pissed off_.

She grabs his wrist and twists it so that his thumb faces the wrong way, and he's rendered helpless. Upon noticing this for himself, he starts bawling. Lauren doesn't care about his tears anymore. "You listen to me, and you listen well!" she snarls. "You're being a  _pain in my ass_ , and if you  _ever_  try that again, favorite character or not, I  _will_  break your wrist. Do you  _hear_  me, you—you—you—." She's so upset that she can't think of a suitable name to call him. Finally, she settles with, "You soggy  _walnut_!"

I want to laugh at the ridiculous insult, but I don't because England beats me to it. Despite the painful-looking wrist lock she has him in, he's feebly giggling. "S—soggy  _walnut_!?" he manages, laughing like "soggy walnut" is the funniest thing he's ever heard in his entire life. " _Soggy walnut_!"

Lauren slowly lets him go, and she awkwardly joins his merriment. "Oh, you like that?"

He gleefully nods. "Th—that's even f—funnier than the time Flying Mint Bunny called America a pile of  _used_   _toilet_   _paper_!"

"You remember America?!" Lauren gasps.

" _Remember_  him? I  _raised_  the ungrateful little snot!" He giggles for a little bit more. Lauren, grinning, says something to Dimah in Russian. He nods and leaves. He comes back with Russia, America, and Hungary. Upon seeing America, England's laughter renews, and he covers his face as he cackles like a maniac. Between his laughing gasps for air, he points at him and wheezes, " _Soggy walnut_!"

"Uh, what?"

" _Toilet paper_!" England elaborates.

"Well, this is... different," Hungary says, seeming too confused to jot notes on her clipboard.

"I think you broke him," America tells Lauren.

Her hair is still messed up from when he grabbed it. "I might have," she agrees, watching England howl with amusement.

"Ohh, I got you  _good_ ," England manages, pointing at America. "What is it the kids are saying? Oh, yeah—you just got  _roasted_!"

Lauren makes a face. "Don't—just... just... don't."

"You sure did, buddy," America grins. "You roasted the hell out of me. Good job."

"What did you  _say_  to him?!" Hungary asks, regaining her composure slightly.

"I—I," Lauren stutters, blushing. "I called him a—... a soggy walnut." Upon hearing that phrase, England's giggling redoubles. He's laughing so hard that he's not making any more sound.

America snorts. "Where'd you come up with that?"

"I—I dunno. I just picked two random words...."

England finally calms down, and he wipes his jovial tears out of his eyes. "Ahh, that was a good laugh. I needed that." He notices everyone staring at him, and he shifts uncomfortably. "...What? Do I have something on my face?" He tries to lift his other hand, but it's still tied down. Immediately, he scowls. "What the hell is  _this_  for?!"

I smile in relief. America's grin gets even wider. "Hey! There he is!" And he goes to embrace him.

Squished in America's bear hug, England tries to push him away. "I did  _not_  give you permission to touch me!" he protests. " _Get off!_ "

"But you're back!"

"I haven't gone anywhere!" Suddenly he stops fighting. "Yes I have— where's Issa?!"

"Here," I call, pleased to know he remembers me.

"Oh, thank God!" He clutches his chest. "I remember the crash—I remember seeing Germany—He said it was only a matter of time before—." His eyes widen more. "How much blood did he take from you?!"

"It's okay—I'm pretty sure he didn't get any—."

He interrupts. " _Pretty sure?_ "

"Well, I'm, like, super banged up—it would've killed me if he tried!"

He slaps his hand to his forehead. "And you're hurt! If I hadn't—!"

"It's okay, England," I cut in. "I'm okay. Or, I  _will_  be."

"What happened to me?!" he demands.

"He made you crazy," America tells him. "You said you saw monsters. Anytime someone tried to talk to you, you freaked out and tried to attack them."

"I—...I did?"

"Yeah, man. Had to keep you tied up."

England is silent as he processes this. "So, you don't remember... like, any of that?" Lauren asks.

He shakes his head a little bit. "Bits and pieces...." He's quiet for a little bit more, and then he seems to notice Lauren for the first time, and he startles a little. "Oh—hello, there."

She grins, bouncing slightly on her toes. "Hi! I'm Lauren."

He frowns, eyebrows knotting together. "I—...I tried to—...."

"Oh," she says, and she flattens the strands of hair that are still slightly ruffled. "It's okay—I'm not hurt."

"I attacked you!" he remembers, seeming horrified with himself.

"Well, to be fair, I threatened to break your wrist," she shrugs. Hungary seems disgruntled at the thought of that; she's extending her albeit limited hospitality to her so she can try to get him better, and she almost hurts him more. Upon noticing this, Lauren lifts her hands in a surrender gesture and says, "I didn't! He's fine!" I wish they would get along better.

England takes her hand, which makes her violently jump. "Thank you," he tells her sincerely. "If— if I really was as bad as you said I was—... who  _knows_  how long I would've been like that...."

It looks like she's vibrating with excitement. "Y—yeah, um, n—no problem!" She turns to the other nations. "So I can stay, right?"

"A promise is a promise," Hungary answers, looking mildly disappointed. Lauren grins again, coming to my side to give me a high-five.

"Dude, there's no polite way to say this," America says, looking at England. "You  _stink_. Go take a shower, or something."

He's not offended. "That sounds lovely." He unties his other wrist and stands. He's a little bit shaky, but he's doing a lot better than he was.

"Bathroom's down the hall and to the left," Hungary tells him. "I'll get you a change of clothes."

"Thank you," he says politely, and he leaves. Hungary follows after jotting down notes on the clipboard. America gives Lauren a bone-crushing hug, leaving her flushed and grinning, and then he leaves, too. Russia sits with Dimah and his sisters.

"Do I stink?" I ask Lauren.

"A little bit," she admits. "How would you even shower in your condition?"

"I don't know...," I answer, self-consciously pressing my arms into my sides to try to contain my armpit smell. "My mom will."

Lauren smiles in delight. "I  _love_  your mom—she's  _great_."

"Yeah, me too."

"I'll get her." Lauren leaves, and she returns a few minutes later with Mom.

"Hey, baby," she greets me. "How are you feeling today?" I shake my hand in a "meh" gesture; I'm super happy that England's okay, but it still hurts. "I'm sorry, sweetheart; you've already had your hydrocodone; I can't give you any more." I nod, understanding. I don't want to develop an addiction to painkillers. "Okay, let's clean you up, smelly girl," she teases.

She helps me out of the room, taking me down the hall a little ways. There's a bathroom, and she helps me get in the tub.

Mom has me sit close to the drain, and she gets a cup, a sponge, and some soap. "It's important that we don't get any of your stitches wet," she tells me. I nod. She has me lay down, and she fills the cup with warm water. Mom carefully washes my hair, avoiding the gash on my forehead. Then she cleans my face. "This brings back memories," she smiles. "You as a baby—I remember the first time I tried to give you a bath, you screamed the whole time."

She has me sit up, and she starts to remove the hospital gown. She's a doctor—she deals with bodies all the time, so it doesn't bother her. But I wasn't expecting this, so I gasp slightly and pull the fabric closer to me. "It's okay—it's okay, sweetheart. I won't take it off all the way, all right?" I nod slowly. She rubs the sponge over my spine, stopping at the small of my back. She gently tells me how to hold the gown so that she can clean me more without seeing me.

Mom moves so she can get at my legs, but I wince and shake my head. I really,  _really_  hate it when people touch me above the knees. I reach out and take the sponge from her, and I clean them myself. "Watch the stitches," she reminds me as I get closer to the cuts on my thighs.

I'm clean. "I'll get you new clothes," Mom tells me, and she steps away for a moment. She hands me a loose T-shirt, sweatpants, and a pair of underwear and moves to the other side of the curtain. I take off the wet one and put the new one on, and then I shakily push myself up. "Good as new!" she says, giving me a hug before helping me back to the infirmary.

She sits next to me and takes my hand, bringing it to her mouth to kiss it. For a long time, she just sits like that, not saying anything. Finally, "...I really wish that hadn't happened to you...." I sigh and nod in agreement, squeezing her hand as I look slightly away. I hate being so sensitive about people touching me, especially since I find physical contact so comforting. Now it's an oxymoron to me—my need to be held clashes fiercely with my trauma, and I can't tell which is stronger. "But I'm here for you, baby. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."

I squeeze her hand again and smile at her gratefully. I'm so glad she's here. My heart goes out to Josh and Zack; they both miss they family as much as I did before they came here.

A thought occurs to me. "Hey, Lauren," I call. "Will you get me a pen and some paper?"

"Sure." She gives them to me.

" _Have you met Josh and Zack yet?_ " I write, and I pass the paper to Mom.

"Oh, you can still write in English!" she exclaims. "That's helpful. Not really—I've seen them around, but I haven't really talked to them. I think we're on different sleep schedules...."

" _I think they're sharing a room on the second floor_ ," I write. " _They could both use some support. Josh, especially. He was held captive for almost two months, and he hasn't had a chance to talk to his family."_

"Is he the one that was with Renae?" I nod. "And with you?" I nod again.

" _He's really scared, and he told me he felt lonely. I bet both of them wouldn't mind being babied a little bit."_

She nods. "I'm good at that." I smile and nod, agreeing with her statement. "All right; I'll go talk to them." She smiles and waves at Lauren before leaving.

Lauren sits on the edge of my bed. "I love your mom; she's so nice."

"Yeah, I'm really glad she's here."

"And your sister—she's  _so_  sweet. I wish I had a little sister."

A thought occurs to me. "You haven't said much about your family," I point out.

Immediately, her smile darkens, and she looks away. That's a sore spot for her. "Th—they... I know they  _mean_  well, but...."

I hesitate, not really wanting to invade, but I take her hand. "This friendship thing is supposed to go both ways, right? I'm here for you, too."

She gives my hand a squeeze, her mouth twitching into what vaguely resembles a smile. It takes a long time for her to muster the courage to speak, but she does eventually. "M—my older sister... died in a car accident.... And since then... well, my dad... he's become very... distant. Like, not abusive or anything, but... just... not there. And my mum— since Faith d—died, she's... controlling. I know she loves me and wants me to be safe, but... I—I was just  _suffocating_." Lauren wipes her eyes as she starts to cry. "And I just c—can't understand what m—made me think that  _this_ ," she holds up her wrists, "was okay! It was  _so_   _selfish_  of me! I'm not the only one who misses her—and now—now Mum—." She breaks off and holds her hands against her face, and she lies down next to me so that her head is by my stomach.

I stroke Lauren's hair, trying to calm her. I don't know what to say—it does sound pretty selfish, but I'm not going to tell her that. "...People do weird things when they're grieving," I tell her softly. "It sounds like maybe you didn't have an outlet? You felt like you couldn't talk to your parents about your sister? Faith, right?"

She nods, still hiding behind her hands. "I miss her," she sobs quietly. "She was my role model. Sh—she got accepted into  _Oxford_. She was so patient and kind a—and I  _miss_  her."

"How long ago was it?"

"About a year, now," she answers, her voice still slightly muffled. "And Mum was so terrified of losing me th—that she hardly let me out of her sight—she pulled me out of school, wouldn't let me see my friends.... And I basically just ripped her heart out and stomped on it, so there's that...."

Movement catches my eye—Dimah stands up, looking concerned. He says something to Lauren in Russian. It takes her a minute, but she answers, sitting up and wiping her eyes. I curl my legs up to make room for him when he sits down next to her; my bed has suddenly become very crowded.

They talk for a while. Eventually, Dimah awkwardly embraces her, and she cries into his shirt. "Oh—sorry, Issa, I'm not trying to ignore you," she tells me.

"No, it's okay," I dismiss. She and Dimah talk for a while more before there's silence between them. "...Getting kind of friendly, there, aren't you?" I tease.

Lauren laughs a little bit. "Yeah, I kind of like him," she admits. "We talk when everyone's sleeping, and he's really nice. It's cool how I can say this right in front of him, and he can't understand."

"Are you ever gonna tell him?" I ask.

"Maybe," she tells me. "Life's short, y'know? Might as well." Drying her eyes, she turns back to him and says something. I've never seen him so expressive— his eyes widen, and his face goes red, and it sounds like he's stuttering, but he looks pleased.

"You guys should go talk about it," I suggest. "Communication is important in a relationship."

"Yeah, okay," Lauren says. She and Dimah move over to the corner and converse.

The cot is propped up to make it easier for me to breathe with my punctured lung, and I lean back, closing my eyes. Absentmindedly, I run my fingers through my hair, gently feeling the mostly-healed cut on my forehead. My concussion hasn't healed yet, but my fever is gone.

I think about Josh and Zack. They both seem to really like me, which confuses me. I mean, I like them too, but not in the same way. This is my first experience with romance, or even the possibility of romance, and I'm not sure how to respond. I know one thing, though—I'm  _not_  ready for a boyfriend. I have a lot of baggage that I need to work through before I can even think about entering a relationship.

But if I were to accept a boy here, would it be Josh or Zack? I know next to nothing about both of them, but that may change the longer we stay here. And I'm really not mad at Zack for trying to kiss me, but that incident shows that he's impulsive, which isn't great. But, then again, I'm impulsive, too.

And Josh—.... It occurs to me that I don't know Josh at all. I only know what he's like when he's scared and angry. Is he shy? Outgoing? He seems logical—he wanted to process everything before he acted.

But why would either of them like me? They don't know me anymore than I know them. They'll probably be disappointed when I show them my true self. I'm  _really_  boring. I'm independent—people annoy me most of the time. I prefer to be alone, which makes me seem standoffish. I can only imagine that my self-reliance will get stronger after this is all over.

Am I really thinking about this? I have more important things to be worrying about.

Suddenly, I get goosebumps, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. It feels like someone's watching me. I try not to get too unnerved—I'm kind of on display here, anyway. Still, I open my eyes and look around.

Promptly, I scowl deeply as Italy hesitantly stands next to me. Across the room, Lauren speaks soothingly to Dimah, her hand on his arm so he won't go over and attack. Russia seems to be curious, like he wants to see how I'll handle this.

"I—I got you this," he says quietly, holding out a flower. "It's a daisy—it means 'get well soon'—I was hoping—."

"I don't want it," I interrupt, my voice devoid of emotion.

His face falls. "I—I know what I did was wrong. I just—."

"Uh-huh, sure," I growl. "And what happened to ' _I'm with you, Germany. I'll always be on your side_ '?" 

He steps back. "You—you were asleep! You had passed out!" 

"Obviously I  _wasn't_  asleep," I point out. "And don't even  _try_  to say you were lying to him. You  _weren't_."

"B—but I was! I didn't mean—!"

I interject again. "Look, thank you for what you did for me when I was a kid. I wondered who you were my whole life. I looked up to you. So you can imagine my disappointment when I found out you're the same guy who was too scared to help me when I actually thought I was going to die." He starts to say something, but I'm not finished. "I  _know_  what fear does to people, and I know that you still tried to comfort me, but that doesn't excuse you. I'm still mad."

"B—but I—," he tries.

"Why are you only reaching out to me?" I ask suddenly. "Why can't you go bug one of the other kids you helped abduct?"

"W—well, you're the only one I can understand...."

"So, are you just gonna keep bothering me until I forgive you?" I ask, crossing my arms. "Because that's not a great way to get on my good side."

"N—no, I—I just wanted to give you this and say I—I hope you get better soon," he says, holding the flower out again.

I slap his hand, making him drop it. "It's your  _friend's_  fault I'm hurt!"

He's starting to cry, but I don't care. "Wh—what can I do to get you to forgive me?"

"Leave me alone!" I yell. "No more flowers, no more apologies,  _nothing_! Don't you  _get_  it?! You helped them  _kidnap_  me! I don't want  _anything_  to do with you!"

Italy sobs pathetically, and he runs out of the room. For good measure, I grab the empty plastic cup on the bedside table and throw it at the door, even though I know he's already gone and it won't help.

No one says anything for a long time. "...Yikes," Lauren speaks up quietly.

"Don't start," I snap.

"Wasn't gonna," she defends.

I lean back against the cot again and close my eyes. I'm still aware of eyes on me, but I ignore them. Maybe it's just my concussion acting up, but I can almost hear little whispers coming from above me....

No. I'm just imagining it.

I shift a little to get more comfortable, and then I allow myself to drift off to sleep.

 

 

_"It's over, America," England says. "You can't beat me. I have an army—what do you have? A couple of farmers pretending to be soldiers?"_

_America, pointing a bayonet at England, swears fiercely and tells him where he's planning on sticking the knife part of his gun._

_"Please, Al," I plead. "You're making it worse."_

_"I want independence!" he shouts. "You can't just control me and my citizens anymore! I won't let you!"_

_"Listen to Canada!" England throws in. "Why can't you be more like him? He doesn't think I'm being unreasonable!"_

_No, I do. I don't really think he has the right to tax us like he does. I just don't want the confrontation, and I can make do._

_"Don't compare me to that coward!" he snarls. "I could do something like this, and he wouldn't even retaliate!" Before I can react, America points his gun at me and fires. The bullet lodges in my throat, and I collapse. It's not the first time I've been shot, and it won't be the last, but it still hurts like hell._

_"Matthew!" England cries, concerned. I'll be fine—it'll take more than a bullet to the neck to kill me. I try to tell him that, but the only thing I manage is a pathetic gurgling sound, and blood trickles out of my mouth._

 

 

I flinch as someone puts a hand over my mouth, gasping in alarm. "It's okay," the person says. I panic for a moment—I don't recognize his voice. But I see his silhouette against the light from the hall, and his hair is short and red, and he sounds Italian.

I relax and shove his hand away. "Italy, I told you to  _leave me alone_ ," I snap. Unnerved slightly because of my dream, I run my fingers over my neck. For a moment, I feel burning pain and taste blood, but the sensation dissipates quickly.

"What?" he asks, sounding confused. "No, come on—we're getting you out of here!"

Now I'm confused. "What?"

He takes my arm and pulls me up. I manage to snag my glasses off of the bedside table and put them on my face. "It's okay!" a different voice assures me, grabbing my elbow and helping me walk towards the door. This stranger is a girl. I let out a little whine of pain. "They got you good, didn't they?"

I'm too out of breath and disoriented to protest. As we enter the lit hallway, I look at the strangers. The one to my left is... Italy. I huff, yanking my arm away from him. "I'm not interested in your apology," I tell him scathingly.

"Wh—apology? What are you talking about?" he asks, looking genuinely confused.

"You know what you did!" I turn away from him to look at the person holding my right arm, and fear stabs through my stomach like an icicle.

_Germany._

I lash out with my uninjured hand and struggle away, but without his support, I fall over. "What was  _that_  for?!" he asks, reeling backwards from my shove.

I scuttle backwards, wheezing. "You stay the  _hell_  away from me!" I yell.

"I don't understand! We're trying to  _help_  you!" he tries, stepping forward.

I breathe in as much as I can, and I scream.

"Shh! Stop—they'll hear you!" Italy tells me.

Someone else touches my shoulder gently. "Don't be scared," a feminine voice says in my ear. I whip around to look at them—it's Japan.

"Back off," I warn him, pointing my finger at him like it will help. "I said  _back off_!"

America appears from downstairs. Italy and Germany are facing me, so they don't see him coming. He pushes Germany against the wall, aiming a pistol at his face. "You'd better have a  _really_  good explanation for this!" he shouts.

" _NO!"_  Italy roars, fiercer than I've ever heard him. He yanks out a gun and levels it with America's head. "Let her go—leave her alone!" I'm confused—Germany won't die if he gets shot. Italy  _knows_  this. Why does he look so scared? And why is he saying "her"?

Lauren pokes her head out of the infirmary. "What's— Oh my God,  _don't_!"

I don't know what she's talking about until a knife presses against my neck, and I let out a strangled cry of fear. America glances at me, shock passing through his expression as he sees my situation, and he pulls out  _another_ gun and points it at Japan. "I don't want to shoot you, but I  _will_ ," he threatens.

"And I don't want to hurt her," his voice says. He sounds calm, but I feel his body trembling against mine. "Just let my friend go, and we'll leave."

America lets out a bitter laugh. "After everything you dickwads did?! Nah. You aren't leaving."

"Yes, we  _are_ ," Italy says angrily.

"What's going on?" Russia asks, appearing in the doorway to the infirmary, pushing Lauren back inside. "Oh," he says calmly after viewing the scene. "I see."

Russia is deceptively quick for such a big man. Faster than I can blink, he lunges out and grabs Italy's gun hand, twisting it up so that the pistol aims at the ceiling. Panicked, he fires, the bullet shaking some of the drywall free, but Russia pries it from his grip and drops it on the floor. Italy struggles, letting out a stream of curse words. I notice that he's crying. "Don't hurt them!  _Don't hurt them!_ " he begs.

When Russia grabs Italy, Japan's breath catches, and he's breathing heavily. I think he's crying, too.

Something isn't right here. They're acting genuinely concerned for each other. Like they all have forgotten that they're impervious to most attacks.

I notice it. Wrapped around Germany's left eye is a scar in the shape of a crescent. As Italy squirms, his hair gets messed up, and I see a little triangle scar on his forehead. Twisting slightly, I look up at the person holding me. The side of their jawbone is scarred. The Axis aren't scarred like this.

"S—stop," I manage. "Guys, s—stop—it's not them...."

"He's holding a frickin' knife to your throat!" America reminds me.

"Misunderstanding," I choke out, all too aware of the blade on my neck. "It's a misunderstanding." When no one moves, I call out to the person America has held at gunpoint. "Y—your hat—take off your hat."

They glance at me and then slowly raise their hand to remove the cap. With her face unobstructed, she's obviously a girl. Her long blond hair spills around her shoulders. Not making any sudden movements, she drops her hat and moves her arm back to her side.

America lowers his gun. "Who the hell are  _you_?" As soon as the girl is out of danger, the person behind me takes the knife away. I let out a shaky sigh of relief, moving away slightly. The person I thought was Japan is actually another girl. Lauren sneaks past Russia to crouch next to me on the floor, wrapping her arms around my shoulders.

Canada was creeping up behind us, so it startles me when he grabs the Japanese girl, pinning her arms to her side. She drops the knife and cries out in fear. "Don't hurt her!" I gasp at him. Turning back to the other two, "Don't hurt them."

"L—let us go—we won't come back," the blond girl pleads, holding her hands up.

"We need answers," America demands. He grabs the collar of the girl's coat and starts dragging her down the hall. Russia and Canada follow with their struggling captives.

"Don't hurt them!" I protest, pushing myself up, even though Lauren tries to stop me.

"Get back in the infirmary!" America snaps at me.

I don't. I follow them. "Don't hurt them!" I insist.

"We won't," Canada tells me. "Go back to the infirmary." Canada's never given me a reason to not believe him, but, for some reason, I'm not convinced. These intruders are  _kids_. They're like me. They're  _scared_. I guess they thought I needed to be saved, so that shows that they were trying to do what they thought was right.

America takes some duct tape and ties the girl's hands behind her back. She looks too frightened to fight back. He starts to tape the boy's hands, but he cries out in obvious pain. "Broken—my wrist—it's broken," he explains.

America scowls. "That's convenient." He tapes the boy's uninjured hand to a chair. "Keep your hand where I can see it." The boy complies. Then he ties the Japanese girl's hands behind her back, making all of them sit down. Now that I've gotten a good look at them, I notice how sickly they look. They're all incredibly skinny, like they've been malnourished, and they're all covered in scars and bruises.

"Now  _talk_ ," he demands. "Who are you? How did you get in here?"

The three exchange glances, like they're having a silent conversation with each other. Then, the blond girl says hesitantly, "We wanna talk to her." She nods in my direction. Lauren protectively grabs my hand. I squeeze it, trying to reassure her.

"I don't remember giving you a choice!" he answers sharply. He reminds me of a drill sergeant. "Issa, go back to bed!"

"No, I—I'll talk to them," I protest, taking a few more steps in the room.

"She tried to kill you!"

"You tried to kill her friends," I point out. "Look," I lower my voice slightly, "they're scared and hurt. They need help, not  _this_." I gesture vaguely towards them and their restraints.

"You need rest," Canada butts in.

"Later," I dismiss.

"Fine," America snorts, "but we're staying." To make a point, he plops down in another chair and glares at the three.

Lauren stays in the doorway as I sink into another chair. "Look, I—I'm sorry about all this," I start. "My name's Issa."

"I'm Sydney," the blond girl says, "and this is Alex and Rin." She gestures with her head to the boy and the other girl.

"He told us about you," Alex interjects. "You gave us so much hope—how did you get away from him? How long did he keep you? Where did you go? I mean, you obviously ended up here, but—.... It's... it's safe here, right? H—He won't get us here?"

"Whoa," I manage. "Who told you about me?"

"We don't know his name—he never told us, and he kept changing it," he explains. "Tall guy—brown hair, blue eyes, long nose—he's Russian, or something like that...."

"Oh. I—I think you're confusing me for someone else...."

The boy says something in Italian that sounds vaguely like a cuss word. "I  _told_  you this was a bad idea," he hisses at the blonde girl, Sydney.

She nods at him, looking regretful. "H—How many of them are there here?" she asks quietly, her voice shaking. "Are they dangerous? Did they do that to you?"

"Of—...how many of what?" I think I already know the answer—but how could they know about the countries?

She confirms my guess. " _Them_." She nods at America, who still glares at her.

I have to think about it. The five Allies, plus Canada, Austria, Hungary, Prussia, and Italy. "Ten."

I squeak in shock as my chair suddenly starts moving—it's a spinny chair, so it has wheels. America is dragging me into the hallway. Slamming the door shut so the new kids won't hear, "What is it with you and telling everyone about us?! This is kind of a  _secret_ , Issa!"

For a fleeting second, hatred burns within me—he  _shot_  me! Wait... no, he didn't—that was a dream.

"I didn't tell Lauren—she guessed and got it right," I remind him, taking a defensive tone. "I think they just did, too." The door opens a crack, letting our voices back into the room, but I don't care.

"Doesn't mean you have to confirm it!"

"Don't you  _get_  it?! They're lookalikes! Doppelgangers! Just like me—just like Josh and Zack and  _everyone_!" I'm angry all of a sudden. "We're in the  _same boat_. Don't you see how  _hurt_  and  _scared_  they are?! Who did that to them?! How did they get here?! How could they know you guys aren't human?!"

"I don't know if you remember this, but you almost got your throat slit not  _five minutes ago_!" he shouts at me. "By one of  _them_!"

"You were about to shoot her friend!" I protest. "She let me go as soon as she knew you weren't going to kill her!"

"I was only trying to protect  _you_!" he snaps. "If you're so sure they're peaceful, why were you screaming?!"

"I was  _wrong_!" I argue. "I saw what I thought was Germany and Japan, and I freaked out! Can you  _blame_ me?!" A stab of pain goes through my chest, and I wince, clutching at my side. "Look, they thought they were doing the right thing—they thought you guys were keeping me captive, or something. They were wrong, too, but they thought they were helping. They were  _abused_ , America—they lashed out when they thought they were in danger. I did that too, remember?"

"Not as  _violently_!"

"Everyone grieves differently!" Even though I'm starting to wheeze, I insist, "I'm going back in there, and I'm going to  _help_  them."

I stand up despite the pain and start to open the door, but America pushes it shut again. "We're trying to keep you  _safe_ ," he snarls in a voice that definitely doesn't make me  _feel_  safe. "You have to do what we tell you!"

He's looming over me. I realize he's about the same height as the actual Germany. "Funny," I manage through gritted teeth. "You're sounding an awful lot like  _them._  Saying I'm nothing but a  _stupid little kid_ , that  _they_  know what's best, and that I had to do what they said because I had  _no other choice_."

That seems to surprise and upset him. "So—what? You're saying you don't trust us anymore?"

"I  _have_  to trust you guys because I don't have a  _choice_. But you're treating those kids the way  _they_  treated  _me_ , and I  _can't_  and  _won't_  let them suffer any more." Even though I feel my eyes watering, I glare up at him fiercely. "Now  _get out of my way_."

He snorts in anger, but he takes his hand off of the door and backs up. "Thank you," I add, even though I'm still seething. As I reenter the room, I tell Canada, "You should talk to him. He's being a douche."

"He has a point, you kn—," he tries, but I manage to silence him with a murderous look.

I wipe my eyes. "Sorry," I tell the three. "Here, I'll untie you."

"Issa, oh my  _G_ —," America protests.

He stops when Sydney moves, meekly placing a curved knife on the table in front of her. "I cut myself loose almost as soon as you tied me up," she says quietly. "I've had every opportunity to attack, but I didn't. We're really sorry for coming here.... If you let us go, we promise we won't come back...."

I go around her to untie Alex's uninjured hand, but Sydney stops me. "I—I can do that—you look really hurt...."

I'm relieved. The pain makes me tremble so hard that I'm not sure if I even have the strength to get the tape off of them. "Thanks," I manage as I sit down. She frees him and then the other girl, Rin. Rin has hardly said anything. "You guys are hurt, too—who did that to you?"

"S—some guy. It's like a secret organization or something... completely devoted to t—tracking you guys down," Sydney informs us. "Th—that kind of why we came here—we wanted to w—warn you...."

America snorts. "Couple of Good Samaritans, aren't ya?"

"Knock it off!" I hiss at him.

"They've gotten really close more than once," Alex inputs.

"We  _know_  there's nutcases after us," he answers. "What makes this 'secret organization' any different?"

Rin finally speaks up without looking at anyone. "They had  _us_ ," she says, so quietly that I almost didn't hear her.

"What do you mean?" I ask, keeping my voice gentle.

They seem to hesitate. "...We can sense you," Alex admits, taking Rin's hand to comfort her.

"Sense us?" Canada asks.

"Y—yeah. It's like—the closer we are to you, the heavier the air gets. It's—it's really hard to breathe...."

I realize something. "I know what you mean—it's like, auras and stuff. You get used to the breathing thing after a while...."

"You feel them too?" Sydney asks, incredulous.

"Yeah, you do?" Canada seconds.

"Yeah—remember how freaked out I got when you said France and China and Russia were coming over? It's—it's hard to explain. Like, you guys made me nervous for a long time."

"You never said anything," he points out.

"I—I didn't know it was, like, a  _thing_. I thought I was overreacting...." I turn back to the three. "I was kidnapped by Germany, Japan, and Italy—you guys look a lot like them—that's why I panicked."

"Are those, like, codewords?" Sydney asks. "Germany—France—China—?"

"No, they're actually countries. Like, living personifications of the countries."

They seem to accept that right away, like magic isn't new to them. "So, why can we feel them?"

"It might be because you're, like, some sort of human counterpart, or something," I tell them. "Th—that's why they kidnapped me and a couple other people."

"So— _are_  these things dangerous?" Alex asks, leaning closer to whisper.

"No, most of them aren't," I confirm. "You just got off on America's bad side.... Plus, he's a little bit sensitive about people tracking him, since he almost got caught last year...."

From the corner, I hear America mutter something that sounds like, "I'm not  _sensitive_." I manage to keep myself from replying. I'm tired of fighting with him.

"How long did they make you track them?" I ask.

"Couple years," Sydney says. "I forget. It's been so long...." Rubbing her nose, "Just got away last night...."

"What made you think your guy had kidnapped me, too?"

"Your face," Alex says. "Horizontal cut on your left cheek. H—he had told us about one girl he had before us—he marked her just like that before she got away. Marked us all early, almost as soon as he got us." He pulls his hair back to show the triangle scar on his forehead. Sydney nods, unconsciously tracing the crescent around her eye, but Rin doesn't move at all. She just sits there, her trembling hands wrapped protectively around both of her friends'.

"What about other injuries?" Canada asks. "Can we help at all?"

Sydney's eyes water. "You'd do that for us?"

"Issa's right," he replies, putting a hand on my shoulder. "How can we turn our backs on someone who needs help?"

So we lead them back to the infirmary. Lauren pushes me back into my own bed so I won't hover by the others. Russia goes to get Hungary. While we wait for her to show up, the three point out where exactly they're hurt. Canada does basic first aid, looking over all their wounds. "That's infected.  _That's_  infected.  _That's_  infected." Whoever did this to them wasn't picky about what he did to them. All of them have a nasty combination of cuts, bruises, burns, and broken bones that didn't heal correctly. Canada sighs as he tells them, "We might need to re-break some of these so they can get better."

They don't look particularly pleased. "B—but," Sydney tries, protectively covering the finger on her hand that's bent at a wrong angle, "it doesn't hurt, most of the time...."

"We can give you painkillers," Canada offers. "Make you as comfortable as possible."

Hungary enters. "Oh, you poor dears," she sympathizes. "Let's fix you up, shall we?"

They're all incredibly frightened. Hungary tries to help them one at a time, but the three refuse to separate. No matter how many times she requests they give her space to work, they end up gravitating back to each other.

"Rin, the cut on your chest," Alex points out. He and Sydney have both removed their shirts because they have wounds on their backs and chests. Rin actually has the least amount of injuries. Her chin trembles, and she nervously clutches at her shirt.

I recognize the mannerism immediately, having gone through this myself. Even though I know Canada's going to lecture me for exacerbating my stitches, I get out of my bed and sit next to Rin. "...He raped you," I point out softly.

She doesn't look at me. After a minute, she gives a single shaky nod. "Raped all of us," Alex grunts bitterly. Sydney nods, seeming to be very interested in the new bandage around the burn on her arm.

"I was raped, too," I admit quietly. "Two-ish weeks ago, now... someone I barely knew.... H—he drugged me s—so I c—couldn't fight back...." I hate talking about it, but I think it's important they know that I really do understand how they're feeling. I mean, they obviously had it much worse than I did—they had to endure that for years.

"Is there any chance either of you could be pregnant?" Hungary asks gently.

"Don't know if we're healthy enough for that," Sydney mutters. "Haven't had my period in years.... Even if we were, he kept hitting us in the stomach, so it's not like it would've survived...." 

"Would you let me perform an exam?"

Rin immediately shakes her head. Sydney hesitates, but she eventually says, "I—I'm— I'm not— r—ready...." Her voice cracks, and she brushes tears from her eyes.

"That's okay," Hungary assures her. "I won't push you."

"Th—thank you," she manages, unable to stop herself from crying.

Hungary turns to pick up a vial of clear liquid and a syringe. "If you'll let me, I'll sedate you. It's very mild; it's just to help calm you down, take a little bit of the pain away."

They seem to hesitate, like they'd rather feel the hurt than be vulnerable. But Alex nods and holds his arm out, and the other two follow suit. After that, she fetches them each a hospital gown, which they all accept without question. Rin puts hers on over her ripped clothes.

"How long has it been since you've eaten?" Hungary asks.

Sydney shrugs. "A while."

"I'll go get you something to eat." She leaves.

By the time she returns, the drugs seem to have kicked in; it looks like they're having trouble keeping their eyes open. That doesn't seem to matter to them, though—they're too hungry to care. As they eat, Hungary sets up three IV drips, making them stop long enough for her to stick the needle in the vein on their hands. She waits until Alex is done, though, since he can't use his free hand to eat because it's broken.

Alex seems loopy, but he's incredibly happy. "I just can't believe we're free," he keeps saying, crying out of relief. "We could go home—we could see our families!"

"Probably not for a while," Canada interjects gently. "It looks like you guys are a part of this whole lookalike thing.... It's a huge mess, but we need to be sure you're not in any danger."

"But—," he protests, looking crestfallen, "th—they think I'm dead—he faked my death before he took me—he didn't want anyone looking for me...."

"But if he's looking for you, he might watch your family to make sure you won't go to them," Canada reasons, looking sympathetic. "Plus, whatever Germany and Japan were doing with the lookalikes, if they know about you, he might try to get you, too...."

"He's dead," Rin blurts out of nowhere. When we all look at her, she ducks her head and stares at her lap. "...I killed him."

"Yeah, you set the house on fire with them in it," Sydney confirms, reaching to take Rin's hand.

"Are you upset about that?" I ask.

She hesitates, like she can't make up her mind. Finally, she shakes her head. "He deserved it—they all did."

"I  _really_  wanted to kill the man who raped me," I confess. "I tried. I tried to strangle him, but someone stopped me.... I still think I want to kill him... but... like... I'd have to be really emotional. I'd stop and spend forever wondering whether or not I  _really_  want to kill him and have that haunt me forever, and then he'd probably get away.... If I'm really mad, I'd just snap his neck and deal with the consequences later...."

Alex is still trying to talk about trying to contact his family. "Can't you just find them? See if they're alive or not?"

"I could probably do that," Canada agrees. "Where were you living when you were taken?"

"812 Vesuvius Lane in Venice." I have to conceal the grimace that flickers over my expression. "My parents are Carmine and Juliet Maroni."

"Wait," I blurt. "Maroni?  _Carmine_  Maroni?"

"Yeah... why, what's wrong?"

"I know him—he was my doctor when they took me to Venice!" I smile a little bit. "He's nice—I mean, he wouldn't help me escape because he was trying to do his job, but he tried his best to comfort me when I really needed it."

"Did—... Did he say anything about me?" he asks quietly.

I shake my head. "No... I asked him if he had a family, but he wouldn't give me a direct answer." When I see Alex's face fall, I add, "To be fair, I was trying to manipulate him—I wanted to make him feel guilty enough that he'd help me get away."

"But... he didn't, did he?"

"No," I confirm. "But he's really nice—he was the closest thing I had to a friend when I was there." 

"Is your real name Alesso?" Canada asks. When he says that it is, he explains, "I just found an article. I can't really read it since it's in Italian, but I see 'Alesso Maroni' and 'dead.'"

"I wanna read it," he says, making grabby motions towards Canada's phone. Judging by what I saw earlier, I don't think Alex would be acting like this if he weren't drugged up. Canada, probably used to my own childish antics, humors him. Alex's demeanor darkens as his eyes skim over the words. "...Said it looked like I had started the fire myself.... Thought I was playing with matches, or something...." Holding out Canada's phone, "As much as I hate him, I gotta say—he's a clever son of a bitch."

"Was," Rin corrects quietly.

"Did you even see him?" Sydney asks, her voice slightly slurred with fatigue. When Rin shakes her head, "How can you be so sure he's dead?"

She still hasn't made eye contact with anyone since entering the infirmary, not even with her friends. As I watch, I see her perpetually neutral expression finally twist into a pained grimace. "I _have_  to—I can't  _stand_  the thought of him being out there."

Alex reaches out to take her hand. "It's okay, Rin-Rin," he assures her gently. "He's gone—he can't hurt us anymore."

"Even if he is still alive, he's probably in no condition to search for you," Canada inputs. "And we're going to protect you. You're one of us, now."

Alex nudges me with his foot. "Is that the guy I'm supposed to look like?" he asks. He probably thinks he's being quiet, but he's not. Italy, who was hovering nervously in the doorway so he could watch, flinches and scampers away.

"Yeah," I answer, trying not to make it obvious how much I dislike him. "Italy."

"Why'd he run away like that?"

"'Cause he's afraid of me."

"Why?"

"For some reason, my opinion matters a lot to him, but I yell at him every time he tries to talk to me."

He frowns. "Why?"

"'Cause he was there when Germany and Japan kidnapped me, and he didn't do anything to help me," I explain. "Including me, there were five kids they abducted. That's Russia's lookalike over there." I nod at Dimah, who's asleep by his sister's bed. "All I do is cuss him out, but he actually hit him."

"So the guys we look like are all douchebags?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"I'm sorry we scared you," he apologizes. "Thought you were in trouble—saw you arguing with them.... You said something about them kidnapping you...."

"It's okay—you were trying to do the right thing."

Alex doesn't say anything for a while. When I glance over at him, I notice that he's asleep. The other two have dozed off, as well. Good—they need rest.

I move back to my own bed, wincing slightly as I lay down. Canada's right—I need to stop moving around so much.

Someone pokes his head in the door, and I smile—it's Prussia. I've been meaning to say hi to him. "Hey, kid!" he greets, walking up to me. "How you been?"

"I've been better," I admit, but I'm grinning. I missed him. "Thanks for all your help."

"Don't worry about it," he dismisses. "I heard you've been angry at Italy," he points out conversationally.

I scowl a little bit. "Yeah."

"Could you maybe ease up a little bit on him? My brother can be really intense when he's focused on something."

I sigh. I really don't want to, but after everything he's done for me, I'm not just going to ignore a direct request from him. "I—... I'll try. It's probably going to take a while, but... I—I guess I can try...."

He smiles. "Thanks. Believe it or not, I care about him a little bit."

"...Is that all you came in here for?"

"No, I wanted to see how you were. You're not, like traumatized, or anything?"

I give a small, dark chuckle. "Why would I be traumatized?" I ask sarcastically.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," he says, patting my shoulder. "I'm really sorry I didn't do anything sooner. I knew that guy was weird—I just didn't think he'd... y'know, do anything."

"It's okay," I answer, but my voice is a little bit quieter. "It's nobody's fault but his."

Canada walks up to me. "Lemme check your stitches," he says.

"It was important," I argue as I pull the blanket over my lap and tug up the hospital gown.

He peels back the bandage. "Good—they're still intact."

"Yay," I answer. A thought occurs to me. "I had a weird dream."

"Another nightmare?" he asks, putting a clean bandage over the wounds.

"No, not really.... I think... I think I was...  _you_." Absentmindedly, I touch my neck. "America shot me in the throat while he was arguing with England about independence...."

Canada frowns. "...That actually happened to me." He pulls the collar of his shirt down to reveal a very faint circular scar.

Beside me, Prussia swears. "... It's begun."

I frown. "What's begun?"

"...The transformation." 


	11. Protection

 

"Transformation?" I ask, confused. "I'm transforming? Into what?" My first thought is a mental picture of me cocooning myself and then emerging as a butterfly. My next one is puberty—as my mom says, I'm  _blossoming_  into a  _woman_.

Prussia runs his hands through his hair. "I didn't think it would start this early—it took years for me to—...."

"What are you talking about?" Canada questions. "You're not making any sense."

"Issa, you're becoming Canada," Prussia says solemnly.

I'm silent for a few seconds. Then, laughing slightly, "What?" I exchange a glance with the real Canada, who looks as bemused as I feel.

"You don't understand how bad this is," Prussia insists. "Matthew—you're going to disappear, and Issa is going to be the new personification of Canada."

"...That's not funny," I tell him, but my voice shakes.

"It's not a joke."

"I—I... I don't  _want_  to be Canada," I manage.

"Why are you saying this?" Canada asks. "How can that be possible?"

Prussia frowns deeply. "I know this because it happened to me. A long time ago." Agitatedly running his fingers through his hair, "Dammit—this really isn't good. I think we need to gather everyone. They need to know."

He leaves without another word. Canada, nonplussed and annoyed, follows him. "You can't just say something like that and walk away...!"

"Wait, what did he say?" Lauren asks, coming over to sit on my bed.

"H—he... he said I'm... that I'm going to be  _Canada_ ," I relay to her. Giving a small, exasperated laugh, "I—I mean—that's just crazy talk, right? I can't be Canada— _Matthew_  is Canada."

"Yeah," Lauren agrees. "Yeah, that's nuts."

A few minutes later, Prussia returns, a horde of all the other nations trailing confusedly behind him. "You see—she's seeing his memories—they're transferring from him to her. And that's just the first stage!"

"This is nonsense," Austria scoffs. "Humans don't  _become_  countries. The countries are  _manifested_. They just appear one day."

"How d'you explain her dream, then?" Prussia argues.

"It was a  _dream_ ," I interject. "It wasn't real."

"You can say that all you want, but this is going to get worse. You'll see more and more of his memories, and then you two will become more connected and alike, and then Matthew will fade away, and  _you'll_  be the personification of Canada!"

"How do you know this?" I ask, my voice shaking.

"Because  _I_  was like you, once," he answers, looking sad all of a sudden. "A country lookalike. I spent too much time around the former Prussia—the Teutonic Empire, back then—and she disappeared one day, and I stopped getting hurt, and eventually, I stopped aging."

"That's crazy," France interjects. "I've known you for a long time, Gilbert—you've always been Prussia."

"No," he insists, "I used to be human." He sits at the foot of my bed and puts his hand on my ankle. "I'm sorry—that's why they kidnapped you guys."

I sit up, pulling my foot away from him. "Because I look a little bit like Canada?"

"Because you're a  _doppelganger_ ," he presses. "You're not exactly human, either."

I shake my head, searching for words. "No—no, I'm human—I'm  _normal_!"

"No, you're not." He furrows his eyebrows, deep in thought. "I bet it's because there's so many of us—that's why you're changing so quickly...."

"No more stories, Gilbert," Hungary speaks up. "She needs rest, and you're stressing her out."

"It's not a story!" he insists, standing up again. "It comes in phases—first, she'll see his memories. Then, her injuries will heal, and then their minds will link up, and they'll hear each other's thoughts. Matthew will become more and more transparent until one day he fades away entirely, and then Issa will take the role of Canada. It'll happen to  _all_  of you guys if we don't  _do_  something!"

"I don't want to be Canada," I repeat quietly, mostly to myself. "I don't want to be immortal."

Prussia is still talking, trying desperately to get his point across. "That's why he took them—eventually, this process would've happened—I mean, it would've taken a lot longer, since they could control how long the kids were exposed to their energies, but still. They must have wanted to make the original guys disappear, and they would've had the  _new_  countries under their control!"

"Enough," Hungary asserts. "There's been enough excitement for one night." She grabs Prussia's shoulder before he can resist and pushes him out of the room. Most of the other countries, mumbling in disbelief, follow suit.

England stays. He's gotten a lot better since I last saw him. His complexion is back to normal, and he looks calm and content, a great change from his behavior this past week. "Hi," I greet, smiling despite my unease about Prussia's speech.

"How are you doing?" he asks, pulling up a chair to sit next to me.

"I've definitely been better," I admit. "I'm down one rib since the crash."

"I've heard," he responds. "How do you feel about that?"

"It was one of those floating ones," I dismiss. "They're kind of useless."

"And your other injuries? How are they healing up?"

"Pretty good. The stitches are about ready to come out." I pull up my bangs to show the scar on my hairline.

He frowns suddenly, catching my hand, and he inspects the adhesive bandage on my wrist.

England opens his mouth to say something, but I interrupt, my mood spiraling down. "I've already gotten the 'don't kill yourself' lecture, if you don't mind. I was just trying to stop them from taking my blood." Surprisingly, I don't feel like crying. That might change if he makes me talk about it, so I change the subject. "What about you? You're not seeing any more monsters?"

He sighs, like he wants to give me an earful for the suicide attempt, but he drops it. "Every once in a while, I see something in the corner of my eye, but, no, none of you look like monsters anymore."

"That's good," I respond. "There must have been a chemical in your brain when you got happy that acted like an antidote to whatever they drugged you with." '

"Mhm," he answers. I don't know why we're both so awkward all of a sudden. "...Listen," England says after a while, "I wanted to apologize for—."

I stop him by lightly slapping his face, which surprises him. "It's not your fault, you soggy walnut. Don't be sorry."

He chuckles at our inside joke but stops quickly. "But if I had just been paying a little bit more attention—."

"Then they would've chased us until we wrecked anyway," I interrupt firmly. "You were trying to make me feel better. You couldn't have expected them to do something like that."

"I suppose," he answers, but it looks like I cheered him up a little.

"Do you know exactly what they did to you?" I ask. "Do you remember anything about that?"

He frowns a little. "I remember... pain. I kept trying to speed up my healing process, but they made sure to just... hurt me more so I couldn't get better."

"You can heal yourselves?" I shift a little bit towards him, fascinated.

"Not exactly," he responds. "We just speed up the process. But the problem with doing that is that there are repercussions in the real world. My country is having a rather rough time, right now."

"I'm not exactly caught up on current events," I admit.

"And it's not like we're invulnerable to other accidents," he explains. "I've fallen and broken my ankle before. Once, America was trying that 'parkour' fad and hurt himself. With normal injuries like that, we usually just let them heal by themselves."

"That's really interesting," I say. "I know I'm pretty tired of all  _this_." I make a vague gesture towards my chest. He starts to say something, but I interrupt. "No, don't you dare apologize."

"Fine," he huffs. "What did they do to you?"

"Not much, actually. I mean, it wasn't like it was fun, or anything, but I was hurt so badly they wouldn't hit me. They needed me to be healthy, so they left me alone, for the most part." I absentmindedly rub my forehead. "Japan said he scrambled my neurotransmitters so I could speak Japanese, and that was... really bad. Apparently, it... killed me for a few seconds, but they defibrillated me." I hold my closed fists over where my skin is irritated and red and add, "I'm burned pretty bad right here."

"It  _killed_  you?"

"I guess," I shrug. "It's all fuzzy. I just remember blacking out and then waking up. But now I speak Japanese, so there's that."

"Hm," he ponders, frowning. "I wonder if that will wear off."

"I hope so," I respond. "I can't talk to my family. Well. I can still write in English, but that's annoying."

"So, what's the deal with those three?" England nods towards Alex, Sydney, and Rin, who all slumber peacefully, undisturbed by the gathering that happened a few minutes ago.

"They said they were kidnapped by a guy in an organization dedicated to tracking you guys," I explain. "They can, like, sense you guys. I think it's because they're lookalikes, 'cause I can kind of feel you, too. I didn't know it was a thing until they mentioned it."

"Blasted cryptid hunters," he mutters. "I don't know how many times they've gotten close."

I know I shouldn't be laughing at his serious nature, but I can't help but release a small giggle. "Sorry—," I explain. "Cryptid—I just thought of you in, like, the Bigfoot pose. Or as Nessie."

He chuckles. "I know I, at least, wasn't very inconspicuous back in the day. Allowed myself to be photographed, and everything. We all did, I think. Left a trail of breadcrumbs for people to follow." He sobers again, looking at the sleeping newcomers. "...And it looks like they're the ones who suffered for our carelessness."

"Stop," I whine, holding out the syllable. "You're great, England—you couldn't have known about that. Stop blaming yourself."

"Fine, fine," he says, holding up his hands in defeat. "Well, it sounds like you've had an exciting evening. You should get some rest."

"Good idea," I yawn. That was really intense for a while. I had forgotten how scary it is to have a knife pressed against my neck. "Night."

"Good night." He leaves.

"Oh my gosh," Lauren runs up to me after the infirmary door shuts. "Oh my gosh—Issa, that was  _England_."

I give a small laugh. "I know. You've met him before."

She buries her face in her hands and gives a small, excited squeal. "I know! It's just that—I dunno, this is just all so— unreal!"

"Yeah, it's all pretty crazy," I agree. "Listen, I'm exhausted. A lot's happened."

"Okay," she says. "That was kind of dumb, by the way." I roll my eyes at her; I'm not sorry for helping them. "But it was really nice of you, too."

"Thanks," I smile, and she leaves me alone. I fall asleep soon after.

 

 

_I jump from the amphibious truck into the water. Immediately, my pack weighs me down. I kick my feet, trying to desperately keep my hold on my gun while staying afloat. All I register is chaos._

_Some of my soldiers fall below the ocean waves, and they don't resurface. Others are shot as they exit the boat. The water around me is tainted red, but I harshly push past the bodies of the fallen, trying to keep myself from crying. This is war—of course I'm sad that my citizens are dying by the dozens all around me, but I have a job to do. We need to take this beach. Operation Overlord won't succeed without Juno._

_My feet hit solid ground, and I push forward, getting out of the water at last. Bodies already litter the sand. I hope the others are having a better time than us—the battles at the other beaches, Utah, Omaha, Gold, and Sword. I know America's troops are at more than one of the sites, and England's are somewhere too. France's soldiers can't help much—they're already on continental Europe, on the inside of Nazi borders._

_I just can't believe this is happening. I want to believe this isn't the Axis's fault—their leaders are to blame, not the countries themselves. I hope, at least. We haven't had much contact with them since this whole war started._

_My thoughts are interrupted when the soldier next to me, my bunkmate, Johnny Sinclair, falls over, blood pouring from a new wound on his chest. It's obvious that the bullet went through his lung, seeing as he can't manage full breaths. He coughs feebly, sputtering a red liquid on my face as I bend over him. He's drowning in his own blood._

_"MEDIC!" I scream frantically, but I know it's hopeless. There's no recovering from a wound like that. Not for humans._

_Johnny's my friend, though. When I discreetly entered my own army, we were paired up as privates, and we've had fun. He has a pregnant wife back home—a very nice young woman desperately waiting and expecting him to come home to her and their unborn child. I met her when Johnny and I were on furlough._

_"You gotta hang on, buddy," I manage, putting pressure on his wound, trying fruitlessly to stop the blood. "Think of Aimee—think of the baby—they need you, Johnny—hold on for them!"_

_But he coughs more blood on my face, takes a shallow, shuddering breath, and doesn't breathe again._

_I'm frozen for a moment, staring at the blank face of the human I've gotten rather attached to, and I'm reminded of why I don't usually make friends with my citizens. They die, and I'm left hurting._

_"I'm sorry," I whisper to the corpse. Then, standing, I wipe my face clean of tears and blood, and I duck back into the fray._

 

 

I wake up crying.

"Oh, good," someone says, "I was about to get you up. It's time for your medicine." It's Mom. I sit up and look at her, and she frowns, pulling me into a hug. "Oh, sweetheart. You had a bad dream?"

I nod into her shoulder. "He  _died_ —his  _wife_ , his  _kid_ —he never got to meet his  _kid_ —!"

Mom pulls away from me suddenly. "Issa, you're talking in English!"

"I am?" I ask stupidly. "I—I am!" The words that leave me match the way my mouth moves, which feels almost unfamiliar after a long time speaking Japanese.

"I—I'll get someone," Mom says, and she leaves.

She returns with Canada. "Say something," he requests.

"S—something." English again.

"This is good, right?" Mom asks.

"I don't know," he answers. "Does anything new hurt?"

I shake my head. "Same pain as before."

Canada frowns, seeming to be thinking. "Do you still understand me?"

There's something different about his voice, but I do. "Yes—did you—?"

"Wh—what about now?"

That's a new kind of different, but I still understand. "Did you change languages?"

"Yeah," he says, rubbing his face. "I changed to Japanese and French."

"French?"

"Quebecois French." He seems agitated. "My second official language." He notices something— "You're crying. Did you have another nightmare?"

I nod. "D-Day. Juno beach. J—Johnny Sinclair...."

His eyes widen as I mention the fallen soldier. "Then... Prussia's right.... I mean... maybe we could pin the dreams down to just dreams. And maybe the language ray thing could have just worn off. But you can understand French, and you know specifics of things that actually happened!"

Mom holds her hands out in a  _hold it_  gesture, seeming to be struggling to keep her cool. "What crazy magic thing is happening to my daughter  _this_  time?"

Canada shakes his head. "W—we're not really sure, but it's—... I don't think it's good." He starts for the door, explaining, "I need to talk to Gilbert."

Mom grabs me again, holding me to her chest. "This—this isn't  _hurting_  you, is it?"

"No," I dismiss. "It's a little scary, but there's no new pains."

She pulls away and cups my face. "At least I can talk to you again."

I smile a little. "Yeah. G—gotta focus on the positives."

Canada comes back in, followed immediately by Prussia. "...and she knew his name—she knows exactly how that day happened."

Prussia sits on my bed, and he grabs my face, staring into my eyes. I shift a little bit, uncomfortable. "You still understand me?"

I would nod, but he's got a hold on my head. "Yeah."

He tilts my head forward, pushing my bangs back so he can see the cut on my forehead. "Yeah, that's still there.... You're still feeling concussion-y?"

"Um, I guess... head still hurts, everything's still a little bit fuzzy...."

"So... it must be pretty early in the transformation...." He lets me go and stands up, pacing a little bit. "That means we have time to figure out how to stop this...."

"Wait, you don't know how to reverse it?" Canada asks.

"No!" he replies, a little bit agitated. "If I did, I wouldn't be Prussia." He stops, rubbing his face. "But we have time.... I think this is happening so quickly because there's so many countries here. Maybe if some of us go away, it'll slow down the process?"

"That could be worth a try...," Canada muses.

"The others should know about this," Prussia says, and he leaves.

I speak up. "Well, have the others been having weird dreams, too?"

Canada shrugs. "I can go ask."

"This is all just... so  _weird_ ," I mumble.

"That was in Japanese," Mom tells me gently.

"Sorry. I—I don't know how to control that yet." I look over to her. "Was that English?"

"Yeah." She looks worried, but she doesn't say anything. Instead, she goes and grabs a handful of pills. "Take your drugs."

"Yes, ma'am," I say, trying to cheer her up. "I love getting high." She snorts in laughter, gently ruffling my hair. "How's Renae handling all of this?"

"...Not well," she admits. "She spends a lot of time sleeping, and she's a lot angrier than she usually is." Mom sighs, and she pauses for a long time before telling me, "...I think she blames you for what happened to her."

I frown, saddening. "W—well... she's right.... It was my fault.... If I h—had just behaved myself, th—they would've left you guys alone...." I wipe at my eyes, trying to stop the tears that start to form.

Mom's next words surprise me. "I'm so proud of you, Issa."

I scoff slightly. " _Proud_  of me? Renae got hurt because of me! Josh got hurt because of me—England got hurt because of me!"

"I see so much of your father in you," she tells me, running her thumb under my eye. "You're a fighter. You don't let people walk on you, and you protect people as well as you can, even if it hurts you. They told me what you did for those three, even when they lashed out." She nods at Alex, Sydney, and Rin. "You're compassionate, and you're so brave."

My breath catches slightly in a sob. "I don't  _feel_  brave," I lament. "I feel like all I do is cry and wait for people to rescue me."

"'Courage isn't the absence of fear,'" she reminds me, quoting Mark Twain. "'It is acting in spite of it.' I'm proud of you for standing up for yourself."

"But if I just did what they said—."

"You would probably still be back in Berlin."

I think about that. If I hadn't fought, Hughes might not have raped me, and I think Prussia only helped me because that crossed his line of tolerance. He could've tolerated the kidnapping, and he put a stop to Germany's abuse when he had to, but when I was raped, he decided that enough was enough. "I—I guess...."

We drop our conversation as soon as we hear someone shifting—Rin. She stretches a little, then frantically pats the covers next to her, sitting straight up and looking around. She relaxes when she sees her friends sleeping peacefully on the cots next to hers.

"Hey," I call out. She flinches a little bit at the sound of her voice, but she gives me a small smile of acknowledgement. "How do you feel?"

"Better," she answers quietly. "Thank you."

"This is my mom," I introduce. "She doesn't speak Japanese, though."

"It's, um, nice to meet you." I tell Mom what she said, and Mom smiles back.

"She's so dirty," Mom points out, in a whisper even though Rin can't understand her. "Ask her if she wants a bath."

I nod. "Hey, my mom can help you get cleaned up a little bit. Is that okay?"

Rin looks kind of surprised, and then she looks nervous. Eventually, she must decide that the prospect of being clean is a lot better than any discomfort she might have. "W—will you come with me?" she asks quietly.

"Yeah, of course," I nod, and I tell Mom that she agreed. While I work on trying to stand by myself, Mom pulls the IV needle from Rin's arm and helps her up. "I think she kind of adopted everyone, even though she can't talk to most of them," I tell Rin.

"How many kids are here?" she asks as we go to the bathroom down the hall.

"Hmm... the five Allied kids, plus me, Dimah's two sisters, my sister, Lauren, and you three," I count on my fingers. "Thirteen."

Mom helps her get in the tub. "What happened to all of you?" Rin asks.

I lean against the counter. "The short version? Germany, Japan, and Italy kidnapped me and four others. They thought I was supposed to look like America, but they were wrong."

"The cranky man," Rin interjects.

I give a snort of laughter. "Yeah, my first impression of him wasn't great, either. Well, after China's lookalike and I escaped, they went after America's real lookalike, but we got to him first. He's probably the least traumatized person here, honestly.... But then they found out something about me, and they let two of the other lookalikes go, but they kept Josh, England's lookalike, because we're friends, and they wanted to hurt me by hurting him."

Rin shrugs the hospital gown off, revealing her tattered clothes underneath. "Yeah, I know that feeling," she murmurs forlornly.

I nod in understanding and continue. "Then, while England and I were out driving, they hit our car with theirs and took me back. I behaved myself at first, but as I got stronger, I started causing problems. Then they kidnapped my sister to punish me. So I was completely helpless until another country helped. I kind of forced him to help Josh and Renae, but it worked out for a while."

"...Until?" she prompts, noticing the last part of my sentence.

"Well, I had needed surgery. My rib broke completely off, so they cut me open and welded it back together. But while they were poking around inside my chest, they stuck a tracking device on my bones."

Rin winces sympathetically. "So, they know you're here now," she finishes.

I nod solemnly. "Yep. He hasn't attacked yet, knock on wood, and hopefully he won't any time soon, but I'm...," I sigh and cross my arms, looking away a little bit. "...'M really scared. I know he's out there. Biding his time. Waiting for the opportunity to strike." I run my thumb under my eye, which had started tearing up. "And if he gets me a third time...."

I let my sentence hang. I don't know what he'll do to me if he gets me a third time, but it definitely won't be good.

Rin is quiet for a while, reluctantly letting Mom take off her top layer of ripped clothes. "...No wonder you freaked out," she says.

I let out a humorless laugh. "Yeah, no wonder. I'm just glad I calmed down enough to notice the differences between you guys and the originals."

"Me too," she says, sharing a small smile. "Sorry we scared you."

"It's okay, really. I know you guys were just trying to help."

"If it makes you feel better, we were in the woods outside of this place for a long time, and we didn't see anyone else out there," she offers.

"Thanks," I say, trying to smile. I'm not really reassured, though. Just because they didn't see anyone doesn't mean he's not out there.

We're quiet for a while, save for me translating Mom's instructions for Rin. I'm grateful for Mom's tact; even without a translation, she seems to be able to tell when Rin's uncomfortable with her touch.

Eventually, they finish. Rin was covered in several layers of dirt and grime. "How often were you able to shower?" I ask.

"...Not often," she confesses. "One time, Sydney asked, and he just dumped a bucket of water on her."

I'm not really sure how to respond to that, so I settle with wincing and saying, "Yikes."

Mom returns with a change of clothes for Rin, and we exit the bathroom for her to change by herself. When she opens the door, I almost laugh. Poor tiny Rin looks like she's drowning in the plain black T-shirt, and she has one hand trying to cinch the elastic of the loose pants.

"Oh, you look so much better," Mom coos, instinctively reaching out to stroke Rin's cheeks.

I start to try to stop her, but Rin doesn't flinch like I thought she would. She smiles, albeit a little sadly, and then she wraps her arms around Mom, who returns the embrace enthusiastically. Keeping one arm around the small girl, Mom leads her back to the infirmary and sits with her on her bed.

"She's crying," Mom whispers to me, stroking Rin's wet hair.

"Are you okay?" I ask softly, sitting on the other side of her.

Rin nods, her face buried in Mom's shoulder. After a few moments, she lifts her head slightly and admits, "...I—... I don't r—remember my mother...."

"That's awful," I whisper, genuinely sorry for her. Just these few past weeks, which were difficult by themselves, were made worse by the fact that I didn't have my mom to support me. I don't want to impose, but I hear myself asking, "How long did he keep you?"

She wipes her nose. "I was eight. ...No. I was  _nine_. It was my birthday. I—I remember... a party. People were happy— _I_  was happy.... Then... there was... fire. There was so much smoke—I couldn't breathe—." She turns a little bit more into Mom's hug, covering her face slightly. "S—someone picked me up, took me outside.... I remember... being in a car, but I was too tired to care that it wasn't my family.... I think I assumed it was someone trying to help...."

Rin sits up, drying her face. When she speaks again, her words and expression are emotionless, robotic. "When I woke up again, he gave me water.... While I was drinking it, he said that he saved my life and that I had to work for him. I tried to tell him no, that I wanted my parents, but the water was drugged, and I fell asleep again. Woke up on a plane. A little private one, not a commercial one; he was flying it. I was buckled into the seat, but I was tied up and gagged. That's when I met Sydney. She was tied up, too, but... she had been with him for a few months already, and he trusted her not to scream, and she just hugged me... waited for me to calm down... She didn't even speak Japanese yet...."

"You were so little," a voice pipes up hoarsely. Sydney's awake, lying on her side to face us, smiling softly at the bittersweet memory. "I was so happy to have someone other than him and his thugs."

"How do you feel?" I ask.

"Lot better," she answers, smiling gratefully at me. Her smile slowly falls. "I suppose you want to hear my side, now, huh?"

"You don't have to if you don't want to," I offer.

She sits up. "Nah. You convinced them to help us. A story isn't much of a repayment, but it's all I have right now...."

"Really, it's fine," I try.

Sydney ignores that. "In case you didn't realize it, that son of a bitch was an arsonist. He liked setting fires. Maybe that just made the corpses unrecognizable. He liked to remind me how much money he spent trying to make it look like I died. Well, the money, plus the fact that I was legally dead and absolutely no one was going to look for me. I had to learn languages fast; the only time I could understand him was when he was speaking broken German. Those first few months without you, Rin...." Her voice cracks a little bit. "...They were  _hell_."

"We couldn't even talk to each other," Rin points out.

"It didn't matter. We were in the same boat. And I finally had a reason to keep living, to—to keep fighting, keep trying to stay myself— 'cause all I knew was that this teeny little girl needed my help."

Rin lets go of Mom to sit next to Sydney, throwing her arms around her. Sydney finally lets herself cry. I take the opportunity to translate for Mom both of their stories, and she tears up a little bit, as well.

"It's over now," I remind them firmly, echoing what England was telling me before we crashed. "I know it hurts now, but it's going to get better. He's dead, and he can't hurt you anymore." I glance at Mom, giving her hand a squeeze. "And if he's not, I think my mom will kill him for you," I joke, even though she can't understand me. Mom's always been overly-sympathetic, especially when it comes to the trauma of kids.

" _Is_  it over, though?" a new voice asks, and Alex sits up. He takes the IV needle out of his arm. Mom watches him do it, and she doesn't oppose, so I guess that's okay. Alex sits on Sydney's bed, joining his two friends. "I—I mean, I don't mean to be rude, or anything, but... we're kind of wrapped up in your problem now, aren't we?"

I shrug. "I really don't know," I answer honestly. "We know now why Germany, Japan, and Italy took the five of us in the first place. It's because, if we spend enough time around other countries, I—I guess we start to turn into our counterpart.... And so they thought that if they took us and controlled how long we were exposed to their energies, we would eventually turn into countries, and they would have us under their control. I definitely don't think they want us to reverse that...." I sit for a minute, just thinking. "...So... if they catch you and realize who you are,  _what_  you are... they'll probably want to get you guys as far away from other countries as possible. Either that or—...." I close my mouth. I don't want to scare them any more than they already are.

But Alex picks up where I left off, slowly and solemnly articulating the words. "...Or... they'll kill us... to make sure they'll stay themselves...."

"But maybe not," I try in a show of almost desperate optimism.  _Someone's_  gotta lighten the mood in here. "Maybe he'll just le—...." My voice dies as my faux positivity crumbles in the face of reality. "...Leave us alone...."

We're quiet for a long time. Mom, sensing the mood, rubs my shoulders and hugs me.

After a while, I manage to find my voice again. "...Listen, guys. I'm not going to lie to you. Germany and Japan... they're heinous, and they're unpredictable, and they're out—," my voice cracks embarrassingly as the nature of my words sink in, but I continue, "—they're  _out there_. They're  _out there_ , and the longer they wait to attack the more paranoid I get. You guys are in danger just by association."

"I'm sorry," Sydney says gently.

I wipe at my streaming eyes. "For what? You haven't done anything wrong."

"Our abuser is dead. Yours aren't."

I look down at her statement. "...With any luck, I'll get to the human one before his karma does."

 

 

A while later, Canada comes to tell me he'll help me start some light physical therapy. "Fantastic," I say, letting him help me up. "I'm bored as hell."

He chuckles. "Bored is better than terrified."

"Yeah, I guess," I answer. "I could use a happy medium, though."

There's a room downstairs close to the garage and the laundry room that's fairly big. Austria said that this is where he exercises and that we were welcome to use it, as long as we put everything back where we found it. There are shelves of weights and a couple exercise machines, like a treadmill and a stationary bicycle.

Lauren joins us. The first thing I have to do is try to use my right hand, which is stiff and sore from its fracture about a month and a half ago. Lauren sits with me and tosses me a hackey sack, which I'm supposed to catch in my injured hand. You'd think it would be slightly healed by now, but it's not. It hasn't been properly set, and I keep exacerbating it.

"You're doing great!" she encourages, tossing it underhanded.

I don't feel like I'm doing great. Basically, instead of clamping my fingers around the squishy ball like I'm supposed to, I let my palm block its path, and then I catch it with my left hand before it hits the ground.

Canada notices this. "Do you wanna try something else?" he asks, noticing my grimace every time I bat the sack out of the air.

"Yes, please."

"Let's test your shoulder. You said you dislocated it in the crash, right?" I nod, and he has me sit next to a rowing machine. "You don't have to do the entire rowing motion," he explains. "That uses a lot of your stomach muscles, and you probably shouldn't mess with them too much right now. Later, though," he adds, giving me an apologetic smile.

So I pull the handle in its socket ten times before I'm allowed a thirty-second break, and then I do another ten. My shoulder doesn't usually hurt nowadays, but exacerbating it like this inflames the almost-healed muscles.

"Don't get discouraged," Lauren tells me when I slump slightly against the machine, panting.

"Yeah, it's okay if we stop for now if you're not up for it," Canada agrees.

"I'm up for it," I answer a little breathlessly. "I'm just frustrated."

"How about some walking?"

"There's nothing wrong with my legs," I respond.

"Yeah, but you've been in bed for so long that your muscles are weak. Gotta strengthen them up."

"Especially if I have to start running for my life," I joke, rapping my knuckles three times on the bench I'm on to dissuade the universe from getting any ideas.

 

Lauren holds my hand as we walk around the room. "How are you doing? Like, emotionally?"

Canada's right. My legs shake as they support me. "Paranoid," I answer truthfully. "It's been...  _too_  quiet."

"Maybe that's a good thing?" she suggests. "Maybe they've given up? I mean, you're protected by a small army of countries."

I shake my head. "They haven't given up. Not after everything they've done."

"You could be wrong," she tries. "Didn't you say they're unpredictable?"

"I mean, yeah, but in the entirely wrong way." I sigh, squeezing Lauren's hand. "You wouldn't understand. You've never met them."

"Help me understand, then," she requests.

I nod, but I pull her over to a bench with the hasty explanation of, "I gotta sit down." For a while, I press my hand against the scabbing stitches in my chest, trying to breathe and think of a way to explain. "It's just... I never knew what they were going to do. The  _smallest thing_  would set Germany off. I  _looked_  at him wrong, and he hit me. He was stomping up to me, and I splashed some water on him, and he  _strangled_  me. I—I would've died right there if they didn't make him drop me. He had  _just_  explained that hurting me would affect the results of whatever stupid tests they wanted me to take, but.... I guess he.... His anger got the best of him. He almost killed me."

Lauren squeezes my hand and strokes my thumb. "I heard you mention that you would rather be dead."

The corners of my mouth twist up in a joyless smile. "That was.... The strangulation happened before I decided that. Before I knew how deep in over my head I was." I let the smile fall. "And I am in  _way_  deep. I don't think Germany is  _ever_  going to let me get away from him. There's...." I duck my head, sighing. "There's nowhere I can hide. He's always going to find me.... He'll follow me... either until he gets this whole 'world domination' thing out of his head... or until I'm dead. And I'm pretty sure the latter will happen first."

She nods slowly, thinking. I'm glad she's not getting emotional about my morbid declaration. Finally, she says, "...But you're forgetting something."

"What?"

"You're not dealing with this alone." Lauren squeezes my hand again, smiling. "The other countries  _know_  about them. You're  _protected_ , Issa. It's, what, almost a dozen countries against two? I like those odds."

I let myself take comfort in her words. Still— "But they still aren't  _acting_  on it. They  _know_  that Germany and Japan know where I am, and now they know that unless they do something, the Axis's first plan is going to happen— all of the lookalikes will turn into the real countries, like Prussia did."

"That's not entirely true," Canada pipes up, finally joining us. "We've been planning. When the time is right, we're going to put all of you in the Witness Protection Program."

I can't say this reassures me. "Witness Protection?" I echo weakly.

"Yeah. We're all getting the paperwork ready." He pats my shoulder. "In a few weeks, no countries will bother you again."

"...Oh," I manage.

Canada's smile falters. "...Isn't that what you want?"

"Well... yes, but...," I admit. "Not that I don't like you guys or anything," I add hastily.

"I understand."

"It's just...," I think for a moment, trying to put my fears into words. "There's going to be a paper trail...."

"A well-hidden one," he points out. "The actual reason you'll be in the WPP won't be included on the form. Just a string we countries can pull," he adds when I look at him questioningly. "The reason will be...  _conveniently_  left out. All that the people guarding you will know is that you'll be in danger if the wrong people find out where you are, and they're contract-obligated not to try to find out."

"Contract-obligated?" I repeat, not convinced. "People... people are... easy to bribe...."

"I know you're scared," Canada says gently, "but believe me when I tell you—you'll get the best agents in my government. I hope you're okay with moving to my country," he adds.

"Looks like I'm going to have to start completely over, no matter what country I'm in.... But... what about the other lookalikes? What about you, Lauren?"

"We'll bring them back to their own countries and find protection for them there. But... you're right in assuming that, after we send you your separate ways, you won't be allowed to contact each other. That goes for you, too, Lauren."

Lauren's face falls. Then, sounding melancholy and disappointed, "...I kind of figured. Knew this was... well, ' _too good to be true'_  isn't exactly the right phrase, but.... But, yeah, I kinda knew that this wouldn't last forever. Will I have to be in Witness Protection?"

Canada scratches the back of his head. "...That's not really up to me, but I don't see a reason why you should be. Not unless Germany and Japan find out about you."

I squeeze Lauren's hand. "I sure hope not. I don't like it when they hurt my friends."

She smiles at me. "Let's walk again," she suggests.

I nod, and we walk around the room a few more times, the uncertainty of the future ringing through the silence.

 

 

A few days later, Josh joins me at the kitchen table. "Happy 3-month-a-versary," he says.

I look at him. I had been staring out the window to my left before he showed up, too distracted to pay attention to the food in front of me. "What?"

"It's been 3 months since this all started," he says, sliding in the chair next to me. I'm glad we can communicate again.

"Oh." I run through the sequence of events in my head—month and a half in Berlin, one week-ish in Yorkshire/DC, two in Venice, and three weeks in Vienna. "I guess it has been, hasn't it?" A few moments of silence pass between us, and I push a few vegetables to the side of my plate. "How are you taking it?"

"Meh," he answers, shaking his hand. "I have my bad moments. I think I'm okay, though.... You know, as okay as I can be, surrounded by a bunch of magical creatures and recovering from the trauma of being kidnapped and beaten." He stares out the window next to the table, watching forlornly as the trees sway in the distance.

"That's the spirit," I encourage, smiling a little. Playing with my food again, "Have you been able to call your family yet?"

He nods. "Few days ago. England let me." Josh crosses his arms on the table, putting his chin on them. "They know I'm not dead now. I don't think I've ever heard my dad cry like that.... Mum said the police gave up, told them to assume the worst. I mean, I guess I kind of understand that; I just disappeared. No trail, no evidence, no hints at all. England explained that whole teleporting thing to me," he adds. "And there's that whole thing that kids normally don't survive past twenty-four hours with their kidnappers.... They were planning a memorial service for me. Since, y'know, there's no body to have a funeral for." His voice sounds hollow. "England thought they should go through with it. Better that Germany and Japan don't know I contacted them."

"Yikes," I murmur, pushing my plate away to put my hand on his elbow. In an effort to make him feel better, I point out, "Your cut looks better."

He presses a finger to the scabbed-up scar on his forehead. "Woo," he cheers without emotion.

I squeeze his bicep comfortingly. "...I don't think you're as okay as you say you are."

He pats my hand. "Maybe not," he agrees. "I'm definitely a lot better, though. Hid in my room for a few days. Didn't sleep; too scared."

"Yeah, I know that feeling," I answer. "A lot of times, though, I didn't have that choice. People kept drugging me."

"That sucks," he says, seeming to lack the proper sympathetic words. "...Thanks for sending your mom after me, by the way. She told me you asked her to check on me."

"Oh, she did?" I smile a little bit as I ask, "Did she adopt you?"

He returns the grin. "Basically."

"Yeah, she's officially everyone's mom now. I even heard her telling Canada that he's too skinny." 

He snorts. "I can see her doing that."

We don't say anything for a few more moments until I break the silence with, "So. A few days ago, I was thinking— I don't know  _anything_  about you, Joshua Davies. We're not really  _friends_ ; we just have that whole  _shared trauma_  thing going on." Smiling a little, I add, "I think we should change that."

Josh smiles. "Good idea. What do you wanna know?"

"Just the basics. Favorite color, favorite food, that sort of thing."

"Hm. I'd have to say my favorite color is... green. It's calming—I like to be out in nature. There's a little garden a block or so away from my house in London. I like to sit in there and just...  _be_. Just  _exist_. It's very relaxing."

I shake my head in amazement. "You're wise beyond your years.  _I_ , for one, like to  _look_  at nature, but only from afar. Inside nature...  _bugs_. I can't stand bugs."

He laughs a little. "You'd let a few creepy-crawlies keep you away from the  _smells_ , the  _sounds_ , the  _textures_?"

"Listen—listen, bugs  _find_  me. Did you know you're never more than three feet away from a spider?"

"Exactly! If they're so close anyway, why wouldn't you like to sit in the dirt and feel the earth around you?"

I laugh. "You're  _such_  a hippie. I mean, I've heard of people being down-to-earth, but this is ridiculous."

"Do you get  _any_  fresh air?"

"Not if I can help it."

"You're crazy."

" _You're_  crazy!"

We both laugh, but I have to stop and wince. "Ah, my stitches."

Josh snorts and mimics me. " _Ah, my stitches_."

"That's not funny," I scold, but I'm grinning. "I should cut you open and steal one of your ribs. We'll see who's laughing  _then_!"

"Okay, okay," he concedes. "You never told me your favorite color."

"Red," I answer.

"Blood," he notices.

"No, not blood red," I object. "Too ominous. Nah, I like overripe cherry red. Almost maroon. Like... garnet."

"So, blood red."

"No, there's a difference," I insist.

"Kind of like whatever color of red you have on your face?" He leans forward and points at my cheek.

I touch where he's pointing, but my fingers come away clean. Suddenly, a red light blinds my left eye. I grunt in displeasure, turning towards the window to try to see what's causing it.

Josh figures it out a split-second before I do.

" _Get down!"_  he shouts, panic evident in his voice. Before I can respond, he tackles me out of my chair. I hit the ground with a sickening thud, and he lands roughly on top of me.

I don't have time to process it. A deafening  _CRACK_  fills the air, and glass sprinkles over Josh as he holds me close to him. A tiny hole splinters through the wood of the chair in which I was just sitting. 


	12. Love, I.

Time stops from the second Josh pushes me out of the way of the sniper's bullet. I see everything, and I process nothing. In different circumstances, I would marvel at the way the shattered glass falls in slow motion, glittering in the late afternoon sunlight before becoming treacherous shards on the wooden floor. Above the deafening ringing in my ears, I hear Josh's heavy breaths, feel him tremble against me.

A few moments pass before he raises himself on his elbows. His lips move, but I don't process his words until later— "Are you okay?"

Angry and panicked voices barely register to me, and I don't see who grabs both of us and drags us sideways, away from the window. Another extremely loud  _BANG_  goes off, much closer to me this time, and a glance shows America with a heavy-looking rifle standing bravely in front of the broken window, firing into the trees.

I realize someone's speaking to me— "Come on, come on, get up!" In the shock, I don't recognize Russia. It's not like we've spent much time together, either. He has the back of my jacket in one hand and the back of Josh's in the other. I don't bother trying to comply— he's already carrying us. He doesn't stop moving until we're in a room I don't recognize— a windowless storage room just off of the dining room.

Russia drops us and slams the door behind him, encasing us in darkness except for the slit of light shining underneath the door. "Are either of you hurt?"

"What's he saying?" Josh asks me. I realize he's clutching a handful of my sleeve.

"I—I don't— I—," I manage, my voice shaking.

"Isabella, calm down," Russia says. His large hand grasps my shoulder in the dark. "Are you hurt?"

"I—I don't— I don't think so," I answer. "Josh, a—are you— sorry," I stop as I realize I'm still speaking in Japanese, "are you okay?" I finish in English.

"Yes?" His voice trembles.

Russia releases me and finds a light switch. With illumination, I gasp. "Your shoulder!"

His right shoulder bleeds from some new wound under his shirt. "Ah, that explains it," he mutters. "In that case, I change my answer— no, I don't think I'm okay."

Russia kneels to examine it. He gently shifts Josh's shirt sleeve to see the injury, and he lets out a low whistle. "He's lucky. The bullet only grazed him. He won't even need stitches."

I relay that information to him, and he nods shakily. Then, Josh grabs the back of my neck and my chin to bring my head closer to his view. "Oh my God, your ear!"

With the shock subsiding, I notice the stinging sensation on my left ear. A quick touch leaves some blood on my fingers. "Oh. Ow."

Russia looks at it and breathes a laugh. "You two got hit by the same bullet and managed to get away with only a scratch each."

"That was either a really good shot or a really bad one," I manage, still shaking from the surprise. The reality of that is still sinking in— there was a  _sniper_ , and if it weren't for Josh's quick actions, he would've shot me in the head. "Oh my God, it was almost a really  _good_  one," I realize.

"We're bullet buddies," Josh giggles weakly. The shock makes the situation funny, and I can't help but laugh a little bit, too.

"Isabella, how are your stitches? Let me check." I nod and pull up my shirt. Russia gently removes the bandage, and I hear him emit a soft gasp. "...Are you in any pain right now?"

"I—I mean, my ear hurts, but—... I'm... not... in pain," I finish lamely, realizing that my entire body isn't aching like it has been. I lean forward slightly to look, and I see that, where there used to be two deep vertical cuts, there's faded pink lines, only slightly puckered.

I have to test this more. Without thinking, I bend to touch my toes, and I stop about halfway. "Ouch, ow, okay, lung still punctured."

Russia asks, "May I?" and touches the bottom of my rib cage, gently prodding at me. I watch his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Your rib's grown back."

"What?" I feel for myself. Sure enough, there's a bump where there used to be a cavity. "...Well, damn," I manage. I'm shaking, but I say, "Prussia did say that this would happen."

"That settles that, then," Russia says matter-of-factly. "We have to get you all away from us."

The door slams open, and it's Canada. He clutches his chest, panting like he's been running. "Oh, thank God—there you are. Are you okay?"

"We're bullet buddies," Josh says again, half-crying this time. The danger of the situation must have set in.

I hug him as Russia explains. "You saved my life," I realize.

He sniffs, returning my embrace. "You're making me sound all heroic."

"You pushed me out of the way of a bullet! How is that not heroic?" I ask, tightening my grasp on him. I'm shaking. I guess they decided that if they can't have me, no one can.

"I—I guess," he mumbles, and he buries his face in my shoulder. Suddenly, he stiffens, and he sits up straight to look at the countries. "...Whoa. Um."

"What?"

"It's like... I—I can...." Josh seems unable to articulate, and he stammers on for a moment before I interrupt.

"You can understand them?" I ask, since the countries are speaking in Japanese.

He nods weakly. "It's like... they're half-speaking in English... like every other word I can understand."

I know that he's deeply shaken, so I hug him again. "You're okay."

Josh takes a quivering breath and releases it slowly. "I don't feel okay."

"You will. Just... don't panic."

He nods and hugs me tighter.

"Okay," Canada announces. "We need to get you away from here as soon as possible. Issa, I need you to pack quickly and say your goodbyes. I'll get your family."

"Goodbyes?" Josh echoes.

"Yeah, I'm.... We're all, I guess, going into the Witness Protection Program," I explain. "So we can't... see each other again... I guess...."

Josh looks teary. "After everything we've been through...."

I nod, suddenly misty-eyed, myself. "Yeah."

He hugs me. "Th—thank you. For being there for me and helping me when we were still in there." 

"I should be telling you that—I spent, like, a month being too stubborn to talk." I squeeze him as tightly as I dare—my chest is still sore. "I'll miss you," I whisper.

"I'll miss you too."

Canada interrupts our moment. "Guys, I'm sorry, but you need to get moving. Josh, I know you don't have much, but you should pack, too."

I nod and pull back, and I steel my courage. Before he can really process what I'm doing, I kiss Josh on the cheek. "Bye," I whisper, and I flee.

 

 

I've been keeping tidy, for once in my life, so it doesn't take long to shove all my clothes into my duffel bag. Alex, Sydney, and Rin are all still in the infirmary, and they're alarmed at my sudden appearance and the frenzied way I move. "What's happening? We heard a crash downstairs, and—you're bleeding!"

I wipe at my feebly streaming eyes. "They're attacking. I—I have to leave; Canada's going to hide me in his country, so, I—I have to—I won't be able to keep in touch—I'm so sorry, I—I didn't m—mean for—."

"Calm down," Sydney says, and she gets up to hug me. I feel the other two do the same. "We're in your debt. Thank you so,  _so_  much. ...What do you need us to do?"

"Hide," I answer without hesitation. "Germany and Japan definitely won't want you around, and I—I'm worried that they'll—you know— they'll...."

"We understand," Alex says grimly.

"Oh!" Sydney exclaims. She goes to her bed and pulls out her curved knife from under her mattress. "Here. Just in case."

I accept it with a nod. "Take care, you guys," I manage, giving them each an individual hug. "I hope you all find safety and happiness in the future—you deserve it." And with that, I sling my duffel bag over my shoulder and leave.

 

 

I cry when I say goodbye to Jia. I still can't talk to her, but I make sure China translates how incredibly grateful I am to her. She was there for every single one of my nightmares while we were in Berlin, and she helped me through each one without complaint. She's like my sister, even though I've never held a complete conversation with her.

I feel the same way about Harvey and Dimah. I didn't get as close to either of them as I did with Jia and Josh, but they're still my brothers. We've shared in enough trauma to be connected, and I'm sorry to have to leave them.

Zack finds me through the chaos. "There you are!" he exclaims.

I tuck my hair behind my ear, holding one strap of my bag with one hand and pressing a hand to my aching chest with the other. "Hey, I was looking for you."

"I heard what's happening—are you okay? You've got—...." He gestures at his own neck. I nod—I haven't had the time to wash the dried blood off the side of my face.

"I'm fine," I confirm.

"Listen," he says, "I just wanted to tell you again how sorry I am that—."

"If you finish that sentence, I'll slap you," I threaten, and I pull him in for a hug. "For the last time—it wasn't your fault. What you did was way out of line, but I forgave you a long time ago. And you had no idea that they would've been waiting for me that night."

"Okay," he sighs. "I've found a way to make it up to you, though."

I don't like the sound of that, and he must see that on my face, because he tries to explain. We're interrupted before he can start, though— "Issa!" It's Lauren. " _There_  you are! I'm coming with you."

"Great, I've been looking for someone to tell me about your situation, but—," I turn to Zack again, "—but what do you mean when you say—?"

America is passing, and he hears me say this. "He volunteered to be a decoy," he grunts in explanation. We never did make up after our fight.

"Decoy?!" I repeat incredulously, turning to Zack.

"Yeah, I'll just—you know, since they're looking for a doppelganger with our-color hair and glasses, I figured I could give them the run-around while you get out of here," Zack says.

I'm so shocked that it takes me a minute to find my voice. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah! I mean—."

"No!" I exclaim. "No, you can't do that."

He bristles. "Why not?"

"You do realize what they'll do to you if they catch you, right?"

He pats my shoulder in a reassuring but not condescending way. "They're not going to catch me. 

"Torture!" I yell. "Weird-ass testing! Beatings! Plus, they seem to have decided they don't care if I live or die! For God's sake, Zack, this is a  _stupid_  idea!"

"I owe it to you!" he insists.

"No, you don't owe me anything!" I grab his hand, softening. "Please, Zack, you don't understand how  _dangerous_  they are— they'll—."

He interrupts me. "I'm not afraid of them," he declares.

"One, you  _should_  be," I fling back, "and two, this isn't about bravery! You don't know what they'll do to you!"

"And you do?"

"Yes!" I shout, and I gesture wildly to my face, where my scar is still visible.

Zack studies me for a minute before he releases the tension in his shoulders. "On the day we met," he says, his voice low and gentle, "you distracted them so they'd drop me, and that's the only reason I'm here right now. I'll accept your forgiveness. This isn't about the kiss, okay? This is about returning a favor. I need to do this." I shake my head and try to protest, but he interrupts me. "You can't talk me out of this."

"You're so stubborn," I whisper in disbelief, shaking my head in dismay.

"You'd know," he quips, and he grins. Zack takes a hesitant step forward. "Can I get a kiss for good luck?"

He's joking. Even so, I'm overwhelmed with emotions and not thinking straight, so I stand on tiptoe and press my lips against his cheek. Then I punch him lightly in the stomach. "Don't get caught," I demand, and I hear the desperation in my voice.

"I won't," he says gently, and he hugs me, which I return. When we break apart, I'm teary-eyed again.

 

 

I want to thank Austria and Hungary, so Lauren and I are running through the halls looking for them, when a hand reaches out and grabs Lauren by the shoulder. "And  _where_  do you think  _you're_  going, young lady?" England says sternly.

"With Issa!" she declares, grabbing my hand.

"I told you no!"

"You might've left that part out," I mumble, squeezing her palm.

"Shut up," she answers. To England, "I'm not going to just leave her!"

"You're my citizen," he says firmly, "and Germany and Japan don't know about you. That means it's safe for you to go back home."

"I don't want to go home!" she shouts. "I killed myself to get away from home—I'm not just going to go back!"

"You  _are_  going back."

"No!" Her eyes are wild, her hair slightly askew, and she slaps his hand off of her shoulder. "We made a  _deal_  that I—."

" _I_  never agreed to that deal," England dismisses. "And you're  _my_  citizen!"

"But you're not my dad!" Lauren shrieks, wrenching herself from his grasp. "I'm  _going_ , and that's  _final_!"

She starts to tug me forward, but England gets in the way. "You don't get to make the decisions around here!"

"...Lauren, maybe you should—," I try, but she interrupts me.

"No! I'm  _not_  accepting this!"

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I instinctively turn around. England and Lauren stop arguing when they hear my tiny cry of shock and horror. " _There_  you are!" Hughes says triumphantly, and he shoots a pistol at the three of us.

I fall backwards when England shoves me, and his blood splatters my face. " _NO!_ " I hear Lauren shriek as he collapses, a new hole in the middle of his chest.

"Ah, it's him again." With the biggest threat out of the way, Hughes strolls forward calmly, a smug grin on his disgusting face. "You'd think he'd have learned his lesson by now."

"That's him, isn't it?" Lauren whispers, so quietly I hardly hear it over the pumping of blood in my ears. All I can manage is a shaky nod.

"And who's this?" he asks. "A little friend? How very nice to meet you!"

"Can't say the same," Lauren quips, standing up between me and him.

"Oh, another feisty little girl who needs to learn some manners." He pulls back the hammer of his pistol, and it clicks menacingly. "It's a good thing I'm an excellent teacher."

Sounding braver than her trembling hands make her look, Lauren commands, "It's time for you to leave."

"But the party has just begun!" Almost lazily, he points the gun at her. "Get out of my way."

"No."

"L—Lauren, p—please," I stammer, slowly getting to my feet. Beside me, England coughs and wheezes, spitting up blood. I can't make myself look at him.

"So you  _have_  learned your lesson. Good girl," Hughes praises, lowering the gun. I'm sure that he notices with satisfaction how I shudder at his words. "Come here, Issa."

" _No_." Lauren blocks me by holding her arm out in front of me. "She's not going  _anywhere_  with you."

"Please, Lauren," I beg. I'm terrified, but I need to convey to her that I have a plan. "Please, don't give him a reason to hurt you."

I think she understands. Her eyes dart down to my waistband, where I have Sydney's curved knife tucked into my belt. She slowly nods and lets me pass.

I don't dare make any sudden movements in case he decides to take his rage out on Lauren. "Good girl," he says. "Nice and slowly, now, that's it."

"Please, don't hurt her," I plead, my voice shaking terribly, and that part isn't an act.

"That's all up to how you behave," he says, and he reaches out to stroke my cheek.

There's my chance. I yank the knife out of its hiding spot and sink it into his side.

He screams, but I'm not done. I have a lot of anger to get out, and if anyone deserves to receive my fury, it's him. I twist the knife and pull it out, and I reposition it and stab him again.

Hughes collapses, howling in pain. I kick his pistol away from him and drop to my knees, take back my knife, and stab him a third time, twisting it again as I yank it out of him. " _GIVE ME ONE GOOD REASON_!" I hear myself scream. " _GIVE ME ONE GOOD REASON WHY I SHOULDN'T KILL YOU RIGHT NOW!"_  For emphasis, I bury my knife in his stomach again, turn it 180 degrees, and pull it out. My hands are stained red.

"Stop! Please,  _stop_!" he has the audacity to beg.

"Why should I show you mercy?!" I shriek, stabbing him again. He's crying in pain, and an ugly sort of joy fills me. "No, no, open your eyes,  _Victor_! I want you to  _watch_!" I stab him again, and then once more. "You need to  _learn_ —," stab, "—your  _lesson_!" Stab.

I raise my knife high, ready to deal the final blow, when someone gently touches my arm. "... Issa...."

I whirl around to glare at Lauren. " _WHAT?!"_ I shriek at her.

She seems... scared. ...Of me. "...He isn't worth becoming a murderer."

I breathe heavily, considering that. "You  _know_  what he put me through!" I snap. "You  _know_  what he did to me!"

"Yes—yes, I know—but still—.... Issa, please, put the knife down." When I don't, she slowly reaches for it, saying again, "...He isn't worth it."

Lauren pries the blade out of my bloodstained hands, and, for some reason, I let her.

"Come on," she says gently, helping me to my feet. "Let's get help."

We only walk away a few feet before there's another deafening, ear-splitting  _BANG!_

Horror-struck, I whirl around. Hughes, barely conscious, has grabbed his pistol. As I watch, he finally goes limp.

Beside me, Lauren collapses.

 

 

I don't remember much after that. I'm so hysterical that I don't know whether or not Hughes lives or dies; all I do is scream until someone finds me. With my luck, the one who appears is Germany.

I'm not even crying for my own sake—I'm crying because Germany picks me up and won't let me go back to my friend. " _Please_!" I'm screaming. " _Please_ , she's been  _shot_ —she needs  _help_ — _PLEASE! LAUREN!_ "

The living room is completely trashed. The beautiful front door has been kicked in, the elegant fireplace smashed to bits. Muddy footprints litter the carpet, and America is lying bleeding on the floor. "Get the ketamine," I hear Germany grunt at someone after I land a solid blow to his nose.

"NO!" I shriek, struggling harder, if possible. "No, no,  _no,_  NO,  _NO!"_

"Shut up!" he growls, slapping me.

"My friend is  _dying_ — he  _shot_  her—let me  _help her!_ " I beg, my vision spinning, my face sore.

"That girl? If she wasn't already dead, she will be soon. There's no recovering from a wound like that."

" _NO!_ " I bawl, kicking my feet as hard as I can.

Germany wrestles my hands behind my back and secures them with duct tape. "Stop screaming, or I'll break your arm!" he threatens, twisting it to make his point.

I go limp, crying hysterically. "Please, please,  _please_ —."

"Shut up!" he says again, shaking me violently. He shoves a handkerchief in my mouth, and I'm so panic-stricken that I don't remember to try to bite him. He drops me and puts a foot on my back to keep me pinned to the floor, and he pulls out a walkie-talkie. "I've got her. Yes, it's actually her. Yeah, I've got their little distraction asleep in the van. Okay. Copy that."

He's got Zack?! I start struggling again, tears coursing down my face. No,  _no_ , I can't let  _another_  of my friends get hurt!

I'm not sure how I'll ever hear anything ever again, because there's suddenly another loud gunshot, and Germany stumbles back. "Get away from her!" Canada shouts, brandishing a pistol. He shoots twice more, each hitting him directly on the chest.

His walkie-talkie garbles a few words, and one of them sounds like  _"retreat"_. So he does. He leaves me trussed-up on the floor, and he runs away like the coward he is.

Canada darts up to me and kneels at my side. He's barely able to pry the cloth out of my mouth before I start screaming again— "He's got Zack! Don't let him leave!"

"Issa—Issa, shh—it's too late, Issa—he's gone...."

"No, he  _can't_  be gone! I can't have let him get kidnapped because of me! Please, we have to go after him!"

"Shh." Canada doesn't untie me because he must know I'll try to get up and run. He hugs me instead, rocking me back and forth. "Shh."

Suddenly, I remember. "Lauren! We have to go help her—she got  _shot_ , Canada, we have to—!"

Canada has tears in his eyes. "Issa.... Lauren is dead."

 

 

Canada has to call for someone to bring some sedatives because I'm that hysterical. He takes me and my family away before I can recover from it, bringing us to a log cabin somewhere in his country. "Winnipeg, Manitoba," he says softly as he opens the car door. He picks me up since I can't walk, letting Mom open the front door, which she does with shaking hands.

The place is fully-furnished, and he lays me down on the couch. "I don't have the paperwork done yet, but I'll put a rush on it. It'll be here in a few days. In the meantime, I've got a police team patrolling the block in plain clothes. You'll be safe here."

"Th—thank you so much," Mom says, wringing his hand.

He nods, trying to smile but not being very successful. "I'll have groceries brought to you guys, if you want to make a list. And I can get someone to bring you your clothes from your house in DC." 

"And our dog?" Renae asks, speaking for the first time in hours.

"And your dog," he confirms, gently patting her shoulder. He lowers his voice as he talks to Mom. "I can have a therapist brought up to speed on your guys' situation, if you want it. I think the girls both could use them."

She nods. "That sounds perfect. Wh—what should we do until the paperwork goes through?"

"Rest," he says softly.

The sedative has worn off enough that I can push myself up. "W—we h—have to go b—back," I manage, my words slurred.

"I'm sorry, Issa," Canada apologizes, sitting next to me. "You can't."

"What ab—about Zack?! What about L— _Lauren_?!"

"Neither of those is your fault, do you understand?" he says firmly, making me look him in the eyes.

"But it  _was_!" I insist, tears starting to fall again. "If it weren't for  _me_ , they'd both—."

" _Enough_ , Issa," he scolds. "I want you to get yourself cleaned up, take these, and go to sleep." He hands me a small sheet of pills. "It's valium."

"I ha—hate valium," I protest.

"Please don't argue with me," he sighs, looking disappointed, tired, and stressed.

My breath catches in a sob. "Are you s— _sure_  she's—.... She's...."

Canada looks away, and I cry harder. "Clean up. Take two of these. Go to bed. I'll visit in the morning, okay?"

Mom silently moves closer. "I'll make sure she does," she promises. "Thank you for all your help."

 

 

I see Canada a few more times after he leaves that day. The first time is the next day, like he said. "Hey, guys," he greets, hugging Renae as she comes hurtling down the hall to embrace him. He gives Mom a side-armed hug, and he smiles at me, but I don't move.

"Any news about Zack?" I ask immediately.

His face falls. "No. None."

I sigh and cross my arms. "Then why are you here?"

"Issa, that wasn't very nice," Mom scolds. "I don't like your attitude."

"I don't like a lot of things!" I cry, finally standing from my nook in the bay windowsill. "Why are you here?" I ask again.

"I wanted to see how you're settling in," he answers quietly, as if I might explode if he talks too loudly.

"Not well," I answer bluntly.

Mom sighs. "Do you want some coffee, Matthew?"

"No, but thanks. I also came by to drop off some papers. Your new identities." He opens his briefcase and pulls out three files. "Michelle, you're now Doctor Kate Taylor. I've lined up a pediatric surgeon job for you at Winnipeg Regional Hospital."

"Thank you," she says.

"Renae, your new name is Abigail Taylor. Do you like that?"

"I'm Abby now?"

"Yeah, if you like that better."

"I do like it."

"Great. I'm glad." He turns to me. "Issa, your name is Sophia Taylor."

"Sophie," Mom offers. "That's cute."

"Fee Fee," Renae—Abby—giggles.

"No, not Fee Fee," I say. Trying to control my bubbling emotions, I finally reply, "Sophie is fine."

"Good!" Canada looks relieved. "I thought that maybe you'd like to move on from all of this, so I enrolled you in the local schools. You'll start on Monday."

"That early?" Mom worries.

"I'm ready to move on," I agree, nodding. "Thank you. I'm sorry for yelling."

"It's okay," Canada says, and he smiles at me. "I know things are rough for you."

I nod again. When he leaves a few minutes later, I wrap myself back up and cry.

 

 

"Your friend Matthew told me what's happened to you, and I'd like to offer my condolences," the therapist tells me in our first session.

"...How much did he tell you?"

"That you were kidnapped and raped, and that before you escaped you stabbed your rapist to death. He also told me you've been cleared of all charges, so there's no need to worry about any legal aspects. Is that about it?"

"M—my f—friend, sh—she... did he tell you...?"

I can hardly see her in the dim light of the room, which smells like tea tree essential oils. "Yes."

I sniff, wiping at my watering eyes. "I kn—know I'm supposed to t—talk about it, but... can I... not?"

"It's okay if you're not ready to talk," she agrees. "Want to color, instead? I have some blank mandalas."

"That sounds perfect."

 

 

"Welcome to Winnipeg High!" the chirpy female teacher's assistant trills. "Why don't you tell the class a little bit about yourself?"

I stand, trying to conceal the trembling in my knees underneath my new jeans. My hair is red now—I had a panic attack a few days ago, anxious about the possibility of people recognizing me, so I yanked my hood up and marched myself down to the store and bought a cheap box of dye. Mom returned from work to see the carnage, and she took me to a real hairdresser. "My name is Iss— Sophie. Taylor. I'm from Quebec. I—I missed the last few months of school because of a car crash. That's why I have the...," I gesture vaguely to my face, "...scars." I hide the ones on my wrist with bracelets. I don't plan on showing those off any time soon.

"Oh no!" she sings sympathetically. "Well, I'm glad you're okay!"

I nod and sit back down, looking at my shaking hands. "Good job," the girl next to me whispers. "I thought you were gonna pass out."

"Me too," I breathe.

"I'm Meg."

"Sophie. ...Like I said."

She laughs at my awkwardness. "I know what it's like to be the new girl. Stick with me, kid—I'll show you the ropes."

I smile genuinely. "Thank you."

 

 

Three months later, I'm with Meg in her room. "Okay, your turn. Truth or dare?"

"Hm...." She kicks her legs up in the air, reaching up as far as she can with her toes. "...Dare."

"Okay, I dare you... to... rip up that poster." I point to the one in question of a celebrity whose name I don't remember.

"What?!" she squawks. "No!"

"Say you're a chicken, then!" I laugh.

"Chicken! I'm a chicken!"

We giggle. "My turn. I choose truth."

Meg sits up. "Ooh, I have a good one. Tell me about your pen pal! I know it's a boy!"

I flush. Canada gave me Josh's new contact information, and we've been writing each other. I won't deny that getting his letter is the highlight of my day. "H—his name is... a secret."

"No, that's not how Truth or Dare works! You have to tell me!"

"Okay, fine. His name is... Peter." That's his new name, anyway. Joshua Davies is now Peter Yaxley.

"Peter."

"Yes,  _Peter._ "

"Okaaay...." Meg holds out the syllable for longer than necessary in a show of skepticism. "How did you meet...  _Peter_?"

I hadn't thought of a cover story, so I come up with one on the spot. "...We met in the hospital after the crash. Happy?"

"No, I'm  _completely_  underwhelmed!" she cries, leaning into my personal space. "Soph, your face lights up like a Christmas tree whenever you get a letter. I need  _deets_."

I feel myself blush. "Wh—what  _deets_? He's just a guy that I knew once!"

"Full name! What he looks like! What he's like! Is he cute?!"

"Meg, I was barely conscious—I was  _bedridden_ and in excruciating  _pain_. On that much morphine,  _anyone_  will look cute!" Well. Not everyone. I know a certain someone who was just as disgusting to me off morphine than on.

"So he's  _not_  cute?"

"Well—I mean— I'm not saying that he's  _not_  cute—."

Meg gets to her feet and jumps a few times on the mattress. "You have a  _crush_."

"No I don't!" I protest, but I'm giggling like a little kid.

"How can you deny it?!" she laughs.

I let myself calm down. "It's just... he... reminds me of a really bad time in my life. It's nice to talk with him from afar, but... if we were ever face-to-face again, I'd... I'd be...."

"You'd be having a couple of your nasty episodes," Meg finishes solemnly, sitting next to me.

I nod, looking away. "...Yeah." Life in Winnipeg hasn't been perfect; my problems didn't magically disappear because I have a new identity. I still have flashbacks. One time, I didn't sleep because my nightmares were so bad, so I fell asleep during class, and then I woke up screaming. The teacher sent me to the nurse, who then sent me to the school therapist. It was easy enough to explain—I had had a nightmare. No one had to know what it was about.

She sighs. "You're so... mysterious."

"What?" I snort. "I'm not mysterious. I'm an open book." An open book full of lies, maybe.

"You just show up out of nowhere covered in scars, and you don't like to talk about what life was like before you moved."

"I told you—I got my scars in the crash, and my life before I moved was boring—there's nothing to talk about."

"You don't talk about your past friends."

My heart seems to tighten as I think about Lauren and the way she looked with a bullet hole through her chest. I nudge her gently. "Isn't that like talking about your exes to your current partner?"

She laughs. "We're not dating. You can talk about them if you want."

"I don't want." Letting a small frown on my face, I look up at the plain ceiling. "I miss them. And I can't see them ever again. That's really all there is to it."

"You're not staying in Winnipeg forever, are you? You can go visit them!"

I turn away more, becoming very interested in her blanket. "I can't. Listen, Megatron, I don't want to talk about it. Truth or Dare?"

She sighs again. "Dare."

 

 

_Dear I.,_

_It's nice to hear from you. I thought that we wouldn't be able to have any contact at all, and I don't want to forget about you._

_I heard about L. and Z.. I'm so sorry, I.. It's not fair, not to them, and not to you. I hope you don't think it's your fault, because it's not. It's theirs and theirs alone._

_Arthur recovered quickly. He put me in a foster home. I miss my family very much, but I understand it's for the best. They're not involved, so it's better that they stay out of it. My foster parents don't have any idea; they think I've been bouncing around other foster families for my whole life. They're nice people; I think I'll be okay with them._

_How are you? I like to imagine you're doing better than I am, but somehow I doubt that._

_Miss you,_

_J._

 

 

_Dear J.,_

_I'm doing about as well as you'd expect—not great. I miss you and the others. I feel like nobody else understands, and I'm not allowed to contextualize anything for anyone. I've been telling people I got in a car wreck and missed a bunch of school, which isn't a complete lie._

_I hate lying. I hate being a different person. I understand why, of course, but I still hate it._

_I suppose that I'm off to a good start here, though. I've made friends, and I'm doing well in classes. I'm still super nervous about being in a school; I'm nervous about leaving the house. I'm nervous about being near windows._

_I'm just nervous all the time. It sucks._

_I like to hope that it will get better, and maybe it will, but it doesn't feel like it. Do you feel like that?_

_I don't want to talk about L. or Z.._

_Miss you too,_

_I._

 

The next time I see Canada is a few days after I attempt suicide again, a full year since this all started. My therapist even said that things would get rougher around the anniversary; I just didn't realize how rough.

It's like I'm reliving everything. Every knot twists into my stomach again, every mark the handcuffs made seem to reappear. Mom lets me stay home from school because I'm so anxious I can barely stand. I've already gone mostly nonverbal for the past few days, but today I can't bring myself to even whimper.

What's worse is that Canada's memories haven't stopped coming. Around once a month, I get one of his bad ones, one of his memories that left significant impacts on him. I can't help but hate him for that. In his dreams, I've been shot, strangled, electrocuted, abducted, drowned, beat within an inch of my life, and left for dead.

The combination of his memories and my nightmares is too much for me to handle. I swallow a whole bottle of Benadryl and fall asleep, fully expecting to not wake again.

So you can imagine my dismay when I regain consciousness a few hours later to my hysterical mother sticking her finger down my throat so I'll puke up what I took.

Barely awake, the people attending to me in the ambulance ride remind me too much of Hughes and the stranger from last year. I throw up again all over one nurse's scrubs. Mom tells me later that I was screaming for England to wake up.

They pump my stomach and leave me alone for a long while, and I sleep. Then they stick me in the behavioral health inpatient unit. The loony bin.

That's where Canada finds me. I feel him before he enters the room. I'm curled up in my small cot, too exhausted to stay awake for longer than a few hours at a time. "Issa," he calls softly.

"Been a while since anyone's called me that," I hear myself mumbling, but I don't bother sitting up.

He walks slowly to my bedside. "I'd ask how you're doing, but...."

"...Yeah, not great." I wipe at the tears that start to form without opening my eyes. "How'd you get in? I didn't put you on the visitor's list."

"Your mom did. I got here at the same time she did. She's waiting in the common room."

"What do you want?"

"To see how you are."

"Well, you've seen. Go away."

"Issa...."

I sit up without warning. "Issa is  _dead_ ," I snap. "She's  _been_  dead for a  _year_.  _Leave me alone_!"

A nurse appears in the doorway. "Sophie, is this man bothering you?"

I nod, but Canada says, "It's okay—I'll see myself out. I'm sorry, Sophie."

 

 

A few days after I get discharged from the hospital, there's a knock at the door. "Hi, I'm delivering Rover to Sophie Taylor?"

I hear my fake name and wander to the front hall. There's a woman there holding the leash of a dog wearing a vest. "...I never applied for a service dog," I tell her.

"Someone named Matthew Williams did for you, and he paid for Rover's training," she explains. "May I come in? I'll teach you Rover's commands."

Mom makes her stand outside until she can provide proof of her identity. "Rover here is trained specifically for patients with PTSD," the woman says. "He can recognize symptoms of anxiety attacks and lead you to a safe place to ride it out, and he's right there with you. With his identification, he can go anywhere you go."

"Can he protect her?" Mom asks, wrapping an arm around me and giving the yellow Labrador a pat.

"He is trained to protect, yes. I'd suggest staying here for a few days so he can get attached to you, and then he'll feel more obligated to protect."

She teaches me Rover's commands, and she explains what he'll be able to do by himself, and then she leaves us with a fully trained service dog.

"Can we keep him?" Renae/Abby asks hopefully.

 

 

Even though he's a gift from Canada, Rover grows to be my best friend. He sleeps next to me and wakes me up if he notices I'm having a nightmare; he senses when I'm nervous and presses against my leg to let me know he's there with me; he fetches things for me when I can't make myself get out of bed. He's a good boy.

I'm in the art room at school with Rover when a boy I vaguely know approaches me. "Hey."

Rover stands. Normally, when he greets people, he wags his tail, but it's very stiff right now, almost like he's pointing at the stranger. "Hi. Sit, boy."

He does, but I can tell my dog isn't happy about it. He flattens himself against my leg, even though I feel fine. "Nice dog," the kid says. "Can I pet him?"

Noting Rover's unease, I answer, "No, he's working right now."

He wasn't expecting that. "Oh. Well, I don't know if you know me, but we're in homeroom together. I'm Brandon."

"Sophie," I say, not really interested but unwilling to turn my back on him.

"I know. Nice to meet you, officially."

"Mm."

"Hey, it's lunchtime. Wanna go to the caf with me?"

"Not really."

He wasn't expecting that, either. "Oh. Well, there's no need to be a bitch about it."

"I'm not being a bitch," I respond calmly, but my knuckles are white around my paintbrush. "All I did was say no."

"You can't say no to me, though! I'm a nice guy! You should at least give me a chance!"

Rover stands again, wagging his tail very slowly as a warning. "You wouldn't be able to handle me," I dismiss.

"Oh, I get it. You're a prude."

I snort in laughter. "Sure, if that's what you want to tell yourself."

"Whatever." Brandon storms off.

My brush falls from my trembling fingers, and I take deep breaths. Rover puts his head on my knee, and I stroke his fur to calm myself down. That was kind of scary.

 

 

"You're hiding something," Meg decides, one year, seven months, and 13 days after Day One.

I hope she doesn't notice me stiffen. "Am not."

"Yes, you are. I can tell."

"Oh, yeah?" I question, trying to relax my muscles. "Like what?"

"Have you ever googled yourself? I googled you, and I'm pretty sure Sophie Taylor hasn't existed for very long."

I try to dismiss that with a laugh. "You listen to too many conspiracy theory podcasts. Besides," I add, shifting in my chair, "it doesn't matter what I call myself, does it? I'm me, no matter what my name is."

"Girl, you can't just say that and expect me to drop it! That was  _so_  mysterious! You're an  _enigma_!"

"I'm not!" I protest, trying to hide my unease with another laugh. "Meg, do you even hear yourself? What, you think I'm in the Witness Protection Program, or something? That's ridiculous!"

"That actually would make a lot of sense," she muses.

"Meg," I whine, my reverse-psychiatry plan backfiring. "I respect that you're a naturally curious person, but don't you think that if I  _were_  in Witness Protection—which I'm not—that you'd be in danger if you found out about me?"

"Yeah, but it's not like I'd  _tell_  anyone! I just wanna know!"

"Your imagination is getting the best of you, Megatron."

 

 

I'm in the library during my lunch hour when Meg slams her phone on the table in front of me, whispering triumphantly, "I figured you out!"

To my horror, on the screen is a news website. The headline is from two years, one month, and twelve days ago: "WASHINGTON DC LOCAL KIDNAPPED FROM HIGH SCHOOL." The picture is of fourteen-year-old me.

Sixteen-year-old me starts crying. "Meg, I asked you to drop it."

She blinks and looks shocked. "Oh my God, Sophie—Isabella—I didn't mean for—."

"What were you expecting?!" I grab her arm and drag her behind some dusty shelves in the nonfiction section, hopefully far away from prying ears.

"I—I just wanted to  _know_ —I didn't expect you to get all emotional about it!"

I cover my face and try to speak coherently and quietly. "I'm trying to  _move on_ , Meg! I've made a new life for myself—I don't want to be reminded of it! I don't want people to look at me and see the girl who got kidnapped! I'm  _done_  with it! I'm trying to be  _done_  with it!"

She has the decency to look regretful. "...I'm sorry."

I wipe my eyes. "I'm not going to stay mad forever, but I'd like a day or two alone, okay?"

Meg nods, accepting her punishment. "Okay."

 

 

She shows up at my house the next day, a Saturday. "I brought some movies and junk food," she says quietly, holding up her offerings. I nod and let her in, leading her silently up to my room.

"I know you're going to ask questions," I say when I close the door behind her. I sit on my bed, and Rover puts his head on my thigh. "...I'm not promising I'll answer them, but you can go ahead and ask."

She sits next to me, but she doesn't dare touch me. "...What happened?"

"Some people kidnapped me and held me hostage for a few months. I don't know who they are, but I know they're powerful, and that's why I'm in Witness Protection."

"Is that where you really got your scars?"

I nod. "Except for this one." I point at the one on my hairline. "I actually was in a car crash."

"So, you aren't going to sue them?"

I shake my head. "No point. They'd get away with not showing up for court."

"That's so messed up."

"I know."

We sit in silence for a while. "I really am sorry. I'm not good at taking no for an answer."

I let out a snort of laughter. "Yeah, I noticed."

"...So, your pen pal...."

"I'll stop you right there," I announce. "He's off limits."

"But you said you two met after the crash—does that mean he was—."

"You're one of the smartest people I know, but you're also one of the dumbest." I pick up a piece of chocolate and flick it at her, seeing with satisfaction how it hits her on the nose. "Off. Limits."

"Okay, okay—sorry—can't help it."

"Well, you're gonna have to."

"Sorry."

"It's okay."

"...So, should I call you Isabella? Since that's your real name?"

I shake my head. "I've  _just_  gotten used to people calling me Sophie. Plus, it kinda breaks my character."

"Do you have agents assigned to you?"

"Yeah, and I haven't told him you know."

"I haven't told anyone, either."

"Good, then maybe we'll get away with it."

 

 

We don't.

My worst fear has always been getting caught by Germany, Japan, or Hughes again, but my second worse fear comes true after school on Monday.

Brandon, the creepy "Nice Guy", corners me as soon as I leave my locker. "I have to talk to you."

"I'm... late. I gotta babysit my sister." A lie, but not one he needs to know about.

"No, you'll want to hear this." He leans in and smirks. "...Isabella."

My stomach drops, and he must see the fear on my face. Next to me, Rover growls. "Call off your dog," he demands, taking a worried step back.

My mouth is dry, but I manage, "...S—sit, boy." Reluctantly, he follows orders.

"Follow me," he says, so I do. We go to an empty classroom, one I've never been in. "So. Isabella Pryce, the girl that disappeared into thin air."

"How did you find out?"

"You and Meg weren't as quiet as you thought the other day."

My hands are locked into fists, and I keep Rover on a short leash. "Wh—what do you want?"

Brandon steps closer, but not too close because Rover is still growling softly. "You already know." 

"Or else what? You'll make up some wild story about how I'm really in the Witness Protection Program? Who's going to believe that?"

He snarls. "Maybe not a lot. But if I go public with it, enough people might start looking a little bit closer at you."

I look away, fighting back tears. I'm not going to cry in front of him. Taking a deep breath, I manage, "...Wanna know what I did to the last guy who didn't respect my no?"

"Okay, I'll humor you. What?" He crosses his arms and looks at me condescendingly.

"I killed him."

"I imagined you'd say something like that. Is it supposed to intimidate me?"

"Maybe this will." Taking another deep inhale, I scream. " _Don't touch me!_ "

He's startled. "What?! I'm all the way over here!"

I let myself cry, and I let go of Rover's leash. He's been waiting for the opportunity to protect me, so he pounces on Brandon and sends him to the floor just as the door slams open. "What's wrong?!" A teacher I vaguely recognize asks.

"He was trying to  _touch_  me!" I bawl, pointing at the boy. "Rover,  _heel_!" I order when I see he's trying to punch him.

Brandon gets up, breathing heavily. "Oh, you  _bitch._ "

Half-putting on a show and half-speaking truthfully, I yell, "I'm trying to protect myself! How is that being a bitch?!"

 

 

Mom shows up at the principal's office an hour later. I'm still crying, only half for the performance. I'm still genuinely worried he'll blab. " Iss— Is everything okay? What happened?"

"For the last time, I  _wasn't_ touching her!" Brandon yells from the other room, being interrogated by police. "She's  _lying_!"

I hug Mom. Letting her hair hide my mouth, I whisper, "He knows."

 

 

In the end, we settle on a deal. He keeps his mouth shut, and I won't let a fake rape allegation ruin his budding hockey career.

It helps that a secret agent shows up at his house and makes him sign a gag order.

 

 

Two years, three months, and 27 days since Day One, Meg and I are on a friend-date getting coffee, and I spot her. She's standing across the street from us, and she doesn't seem surprised to see me, like she's been keeping tabs on me after all this time. She does seem shocked that I notice her.

My cup falls from my hand and spills all over my feet. I hiss and jump back, glancing down to see the damage done. My shoes will be stained, for sure, but I'm not worried about that. I snap my gaze back up, but Lauren is gone.

"Soph, are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost!"

"...I think I just have."

 

 

_Dear J.,_

_Do you ever see some things that remind you of what happened? We're coming up on the three year anniversary, and I still can't forget._

_I could have sworn I saw L. on the street yesterday._

_I thought I moved on. I thought I forgave myself. But now I'm seeing her in strangers again? She's in my nightmares, too—she's always accusing me of killing her, asking why I didn't save her.... I thought I had moved on._

_I guess I haven't._

_Love,_

_I._

 

 

_Dear I.,_

_I don't think you're crazy. Sometimes, I see people, too. Most of all, I see Z.. I remember him helping me a lot those first few days in Vienna._

_Sometimes I hate the countries for not helping him more. He deserved better. Deserves, I mean. I don't want to believe he's dead._

_I take that back, too. I barely survived two months with them; I don't wish for him to still be living with them after three whole years._

_Sorry for putting that thought in your head. God, why am I writing in pen?_

_I hope you start feeling better._

_Love,_

_J._

 

 

I see Zack on my eighteenth birthday. I had wanted to visit Quebec, so we take a road trip over there so we can see the sights. We're outside the Chateau Frontenac when I spot him.

Rover's leash drops from my hands. "...Zack," I whisper.

"Sophie, what's wrong?" Mom asks. She follows my dumbstruck gaze and gasps.

He marches at a steady but quick pace, and I take a few steps forward, and then break into a run. "Oh my God,  _Zack!"_

Rover's alarmed bark is the only warning I get before he grabs me by my neck and slams me against the building. Mom screams from somewhere—I can't tell because I'm suddenly very dizzy. If I were paying more attention, I would've noticed the scars all over Zack's hands and arms and face. I'm too busy trying to break his grip, which is like iron.

Someone hits Zack on the back of the head—a Mountie with a baton—and he crumples.

I collapse as well, too shocked to do anything but hold my throat and gasp desperately for air. "What's  _this_  guy's problem, eh?" the Mountie exclaims, restraining Zack before he can regain consciousness. "Miss, are you okay? Do you need to go to the hospital?"

I manage to shake my head. "Z—Zack—h—he's...."

"Oh, you know him? Ex-boyfriend?"

"N—no—he's just—oh my God...." I look to Mom, who's kneeling next to me.

She jumps to talk the Mountie out of arresting him. "He's normally a nice boy—he hasn't... been himself lately."

I'm on my phone, dialing a number that I've never dialed before. It takes a long time for him to answer, but he finally does: "Issa? Are you okay?" Canada asks.

"It's Z—Zack," I manage. "W—we're outside of the Chateau Frontenac, and he's  _here_ , and he's—he just—there's something really wrong with him...!"

"Okay, calm down. I'll be right there. Don't let him leave!" I confirm that I won't, and he hangs up.

I study the unconscious boy. His hair is longer than I remember, and he's not wearing glasses. They didn't bother trying to fix any cuts they made, so he's covered in scars. I stifle a sob. "Oh, Zack—what did they do to you?!"

 

 

Canada shows up in his truck and somehow talks the Mountie out of filing any reports and letting us take Zack. "We have to drive for a while," Canada explains to us when we're off. "I doubt that they'd let him out of their sight."

So we drive. Zack wakes up after around thirty minutes.

"Zack—Zack, are you okay?" I ask desperately.

"Don't touch him," Canada tells me from the front seat. "We don't know how he'll react."

"He's not a wild animal!" I protest. At the same moment, he lunges forward and tries to bite my neck. Canada swerves, letting the motion knock our captive off-balance. Then he slams on the brakes and gets out, wrenching open Zack's door.

Zack  _acts_  like a wild animal—screaming and thrashing and trying to bite and scratch. Mom holds me back. "Please, Zack!" I beg. "Please calm down—please  _talk_  to us!"

He doesn't, so Canada ties him up even more with duct tape, finally sealing his mouth shut. Realizing how bad that would look if someone looked into the window and saw that, he has Mom drive while he sits in the back with Zack crammed into the foot space with a blanket over his head.

Canada has us drive around for around two more hours until he's certain that we're not being followed. He does search Zack's person and find a tracking device, so he throws that out of the window. "Wh—what if they—...." I gesture towards my own chest, referring to the device they welded onto my rib. Canada pulls up Zack's shirt and finds no surgical scars, so we drop that idea.

"I have a cabin up here to the right," Canada tells Mom after a long time. "America and England should already be here; I texted them awhile ago."

They are. They barely give me a greeting, even though I haven't seen them in three years, instead focusing on Zack. I don't blame them; I'm not terribly excited to see them, either. I do stop and study England, though— I had nearly forgotten what Josh looked like....

They keep the blanket over his head as they make him walk into the building. They sit him in a chair and secure him to it, and they let him thrash for a few minutes before he realizes that it's hopeless. Then they peel the tape off his mouth. "Zack," America says, his voice uncharacteristically gentle and sad. "Talk to me, bud. Where have you been?"

Zack spits at him and says nothing.

"He might have been conditioned," England muses, leaning closer to study him. Zack takes advantage of that and headbutts him. He backs up, eyes watering. "Ow. Definitely something wrong in there."

"We can condition him back," Canada suggests. "Once he knows we're his only source of food and water, he might open up."

"But you're not going to torture him, are you?" I interrupt worriedly.

"Of course not, no," England dismisses.

I wipe at my streaming eyes. "H—he doesn't even recognize us."

"M—maybe not  _us_ ," Mom pipes up quietly. "But he definitely recognized  _you_ , Issa—and he tried to kill you."

"Give him a few days," Canada suggests. "He might talk, then."

 

 

So we go back to our hotel. I can't enjoy the rest of my vacation because I'm too busy crying. This happened to him because of me—it's my fault he's been tortured beyond recognition. They did this to him because of me.

"I want to try something," Canada tells me the day before we're supposed to go back to Winnipeg. "Would you be okay with staying in the room alone with him? He won't eat or drink or talk, and he attacks if we try to untie him. The only person he seems to recognize is you."

I nod. "I want to help him." Mom is reluctant, but I don't really need her permission. I go in Zack's room and shut the door quietly behind me.

Zack is lying on the bed, his arms secured behind his back, one leg chained to the bedpost. There's an untouched glass of water with a straw sticking out of it on the bedside table. He bolts up when he hears me.

"H—hi, Zack," I manage. He doesn't say anything; he only shifts to a more comfortable position. "...I'm so sorry... this is all my fault...." When he remains silent, I decide to switch tactics and make him angry. "To be fair... I  _did_  tell you it was a stupid idea....

"God, this isn't  _fair_!" I exclaim, hitting my hand against my thigh. "This wasn't supposed to happen to you!"

He speaks. "...But it did." His voice is gravelly and hoarse.

"Please, keep talking—drink something!" I sit next to him and hold the cup of water in front of him.

"I can't do both at the same time," he notices dryly, leaning away from the straw.

"You're dehydrated," I insist.

"I've been dehydrated before," he dismisses. "I'll be dehydrated again."

I'm crying. "Wh—what did they do to you?"

"They turned me into the man I'm supposed to be," he declares coldly. "The man who kills the Ultimate Weapon."

And with that, there's a snapping noise as his restraints break. He lunges at me, wrapping his hands around my throat and tackling me off the bed.

Rover is the first to jump to my aid, hearing my quick cry of panic before it registers with the countries. He bursts through the door, and he pounces at Zack, who is forced to let go of me to defend himself from Rover's teeth. Rover doesn't hold back, and I see blood forming on Zack's jacket sleeve.

"Heel!" I manage, just in time for the countries to come in and overwhelm Zack. They tie him back up.

"Oh, damn, he's gonna need stitches," America notices.

"She's too dangerous to be kept alive!" Zack is yelling. " _You have to let me kill her_!"

"Michelle, take Issa and go back home! We'll take care of him," Canada orders.

I sob, clutching Rover by his vest. "H—happy birthday, Zack," I manage before I'm pulled from the room.

 

 

_Dear J.,_

_Z. is alive. He's alive, and he wants to kill me. He said they turned him into the man he's supposed to be. He said he's the man who's going to kill the "Ultimate Weapon."_

_I think that's me._

_This isn't fair. I saw him on his eighteenth birthday. He should've been with his family celebrating, doing something fun. Instead, he's tied up in Matthew's cabin begging them to let him kill me._

_I refuse to believe that this isn't my fault._

_Sincerely,_

_I._

 

 

I find myself at the top of an overpass. Thoughts swirl around my head, and I can't stop them. Zack wouldn't be... well,  _him_ , if it weren't for me. Lauren would still be alive. 

_Doing this won't bring them back_ , a small part of me cries out as I scale the guardrail. 

I know. 

I jump anyway. 


	13. Desperate

I float through the empty space that glitters all around me, feeling neither pain nor remorse. I only vaguely remember how I got here—I was falling. I... I don't remember why, though. Or who I am.

"Issa," a male voice calls. Oh right—that's me. I had forgotten. I look around for the source. I know that voice—I've heard it in my dreams.

Suddenly, I know who's looking for me— "D—Dad?" I don't think I can cry in this place, but happiness overflows in me. "Dad!"

I spot him in the distance and propel myself towards him, but, no matter how fast I go, I don't make any headway. "No, Issa," he reprimands.

I slowly stop willing myself forward. "No?"

"It's not your time. Wake up now."

I don't remember much about what I left, but I remember this— it hurt. "No! I don't want to go back! I'm  _tired,_  Dad—  _please_ , let me come with you!"

He allows himself to come close enough that I can finally make out his face, which I haven't seen in thirteen years. "I'm sorry, baby. It's not your time. Wake up, Issa. Wake—."

 

 

"— _up_!  _Please_!" Someone has their hands on my face. It must be raining—I feel water droplets land on my skin.

I manage a tiny cough. My head is agonizing.

"Oh, thank God, thank God!" the person cries, and lips press against my cheek. "I thought I lost you again!"

"M—Mom?" I remember.

"I'm here—I'm here, sweetheart."

 

 

I pass out again after that, and I wake up in the hospital. "Alright, we have ourselves a lucky, lucky girl here, today. Jumped off an overpass and ended up with only a broken leg and a nasty concussion."

"That's... impossible! My friend's brother jumped off an overpass, and he died instantly!"

"Other than the fact that there was no incoming traffic, I don't know how she survived with so few injuries. Lucky, lucky, lucky girl," he hums, and I feel hands gently touch me.

"Nngh," I manage.

"Ah, she's awake! How are you feeling, Ms. Taylor?"

"T—Taylor?" I mumble. "My last name is Pryce...."

"She's confused," I hear the doctor say, and then I black out again.

 

 

When I've recovered enough, they put me back in the psych ward like they did when I was 15. It's slightly different now, now that I'm 18 and able to make my own adult decisions. For one thing, I decide who gets to visit me. "Sophie, there's a Mr. Williams to see you."

"I don't want to see him," I answer, and I continue what I was doing. And that's the end of that. Canada may be a country, but he can't bend the hospital rules.

 

 

He shows up again the next day, and I reluctantly let him in. It must be important if he did get the hint yesterday, and I have a question for him, too.

"How are you?"

"Leg's broken. Head hurts," I answer stiffly. "How's Zack?"

Canada seems to wish I would leave that subject alone. "Small changes. He ate a little bit yesterday. Granted, I had told him he wouldn't be able to kill you if he didn't keep his strength up...."

"I'm not offended," I dismiss.

"Did you do this because of him?" he asks softly.

I force tears back. "Yeah."

"It's not your fault!" he cries quietly but earnestly. "You even  _told_  him what a bad idea it was!"

"I kn—know, but—."

"But what?" He softens and sits next to me, tears in his eyes. "I mean this in the nicest of ways—the world doesn't revolve around you. Not everything related to you is your fault."

I sigh, acknowledging that. "It wasn't just because of him and Lauren, though. It was for me, too. I'm tired of being alive, Canada—I'm just so  _tired_."

"I know how you feel," he says gently.

"Is... Am I still alive because of you? Should I have died the other day?" Through my concussion, I have to slow down to really articulate what I'm trying to say: "Can I die while I'm linked to you?"

He confirms my fears. "...No, I don't think you can."

I muffle a sob. We  _really_  need to break this connection. "W—will I die once the link breaks?"

"...I don't know."

 

 

I hold out my wrist later that night so the nurses can scan the bar code on my wrist band. After this, they'll give me my nightly medicines. "How do you feel tonight, Sophie?"

"Peachy," I answer. I'm not happy to be back in the psych ward, and I'm not afraid to let people know that. They give me my pills, and I'm about to take them when I stop. "...I should be getting Cymbalta, Lamictal, and Hydrocodone," I notice. "...What's this one?" I hold up the extra capsule.

"Just another pain medicine the doc prescribed," the nurse dismisses.

"...I don't need another pain medicine," I protest. I don't remember the doctor telling me he was going to give me more painkillers, so I'm wary.

"Just take it," he sighs. "You're holding up the line."

A glance over my shoulder confirms that the other inmates are also waiting for their meds. What's the worst thing that could happen? I put the extra pill in my mouth.

 

 

I spit it out when they're not looking.

 

 

A few hours later, I hear the night-shift nurse poke his head in the door. They do this—pop in on the patients to monitor their sleep. They told me when I was admitted that if I notice them, I need to let them know that I'm awake.

I don't. This is the third time so far this night that they've checked on me. I think I might know what they're doing, but I really,  _really_  hope I'm wrong.

 

 

The fifth time my door opens, he comes in completely. "...Sophie?" he whispers, but I don't answer. His footsteps pad softly towards me until he's close enough to pinch my arm, just to make sure I'm asleep. I manage to not react. "She's really asleep," he confirms to someone else who just stepped in the room.

"She's been asleep, hasn't she?" a grumpy voice asks. I don't recognize the voice, but my stomach drops when I realize the speaker has an accent. Sounds like German to me. "How much do I owe you?"

"I'm breaking a lot of rules for you, so two thousand should cover it."

"Two thou—?!" the latter sputters, and there's a sound like him clapping his hand over his mouth. The former shushes him. " _Fine_! Stingy Americans."

I'm glad they already checked my consciousness; if they were to take my pulse right now, they'd know that I'm awake.

That gives me an idea. Gently at first, I make myself twitch, but I intensify it. "What's happening to her? A seizure?" The foreigner sounds concerned.

"Nah, just a nightmare. She'll be—whoa!"

I bolt upright, forcing in a gasp. "Wh—who's th—there?!" I cry.

"J—just checking on you, Sophie," the nurse whispers through the dark. "Are you okay?"

"N—nightmare," I lie.

"Well, go back to sleep." He sounds slightly annoyed. I just ruined his business deal.

"I'll try," I fake-promise, and I lie back down. There. Now they won't be able to kidnap me tonight. Even so, I make sure to stay awake for the rest of the night.

 

 

At my meeting with the doctor the next day, I make sure to mention, "That new pain medicine you prescribed makes me feel weird."

Just like I had suspected, he answers, "New pain medicine?"

"Yeah, the one Trent made me take." I'm pretty sure that's the night-shift nurse that was trying to sell me last night.

"Hm." The doctor checks his computer. "It doesn't say that you were given an extra medicine."

"How strange," I reply, trying to hide my sarcasm.

 

 

Lo and behold, the unprescribed pill is waiting for me again that night. Instead of arguing with Trent, I "accidentally" knock my water cup over. "Whoops!"

"I'll get you more," Trent says "kindly."

While he has his back turned, I call over a different nurse. "Hey, will you tell me what medicine this one is?" I show her the unidentified pill.

"I'll check." She taps on the keyboard. "Hm. It says you should only be getting three pills at night."

"Weird," I say, making sure to make eye contact with Trent. He looks disgruntled as he hands me my water again. I take one sip of the water and spit it out—it's salty, and I know why. "Did you just try to roofie me?!"

"What?!" he gasps in outrage. "I would never!"

"I've tasted Rohypnol before!" I protest.

"She's paranoid," Trent announces, but he's sweating.

"Who did you bring into my room last night, then?"

"Trent?" the other nurse asks.

"She must not be responding well to the medicines! Doesn't, um—," he checks my chart, "Hydrocodone cause paranoia when mixed with meds like Lamictal?"

"Even if it does, it's your guys' job to make sure I'm safe while I'm in here!" I cry, slamming my water back on the counter. "I'm not drinking this."

"Fine!" the female nurse snaps. I haven't learned her name yet. "Go get some water from the tap." I do that, and I make sure I only take the three medicines the doctor prescribed me.

 

 

The door opens around three in the morning. "Are you going to sleep at all?"

"Nope," I answer simply, shifting my foot on its pillow. It hurts a lot, but I need to keep it elevated.

"You know, you wouldn't be hard to overpower right now," Trent says, stepping in the room.

"Is that a threat?" I shift nervously because he's right—I'm injured and helpless.

"It is what you make of it," he says, shrugging. "You're a real brat, you know?"

"I've been told," I snarl. "People don't like it when I try to keep myself from getting kidnapped."

"Who said anything about kidnapping?"

"What were you trying to do with me last night?"

"I have a... friend, who wants to speak with you."

"Just... talk," I repeat skeptically. "Then why do I need to be asleep?"

"He's very secretive."

"Well, he can talk to me during visiting hours like everyone else, or not at all," I dismiss.

"He's paying me to—."

I interrupt him. "Yeah, yeah, paying you to get me alone with him. That's not suspicious at all, is it? Not raising any red flags for you?"

"Hey, I  _need_  this money!"

"And I  _need_  to stay  _not kidnapped_!" I shoot back.

He growls, and steps a lot closer than I would like, and I see he has a syringe. I take no chances, and I scream. He jumps on me and sticks me with the needle, and he manages to hide it in his scrubs pocket when the security guard rushes in. "What's happening?"

"She had a nightmare, and I think she just fainted," Trent lies.

I whine feebly, starting to cry as my eyelids close. "Help," I beg quietly.

"I'll take care of her," he dismisses, shooing the guard away. "Shut up," he hisses at me.

I only obey because I can't stay awake any longer.

 

 

When I wake up, I expect to be tied down. Instead, I'm lying on a blanket on a table, completely unrestrained. I'm still wearing the ugly hospital clothes, but someone put a robe over me. I groan as I stir. "Take it easy," a voice soothes me.

"Where 'm I?" I manage.

The voice sounds male, and it's accented. "It doesn't matter; you won't be here long." The more he talks, the less sure I am that he's German—he sounds more Russian.

"Wh' d'you want?" I slur, trying to sit up. My head aches more than usual.

"Oh, no, no, no," the man says, and he pushes me back down. "Lie down, darling—you're very weak." I have no choice but to comply. He pats my head in an almost condescending manner. "You're a very clever girl, aren't you? Pretending to be asleep, recognizing what pills you're not supposed to take...."

"Wary from experience," I grunt, trying desperately to wake up, but I'm still sluggish. I realize that the man has propped up my broken leg. I wonder what that means.

"Oh, yes, I bet. Even after all these years, caution is still prudent."

I realize that he knows who I am. "Wh—what do you want from me?" I ask again.

"You don't remember me, do you?"

I open one eye. The man is sitting in a chair next to me. His hair is brown, and he has a long nose. He does look kind of familiar, but I can't put my finger on it. "Should I?"

"Of course not," he sighs dramatically. "We only spoke for a few moments three years ago. I gave you my number?"

It hits me. The day in front of the Lincoln Memorial, right after meeting with my family for the first time after my kidnapping. The stranger who shoved a business card into my hand and wouldn't take no for an answer. "...The cryptid hunter," I remember, the term England used.

"Oh, you _do_  remember me!" he cries, seeming pleased.

"What do you want from me?" I open both eyes and shift a little bit away from him.

"You never called me," he says, pouting. "It took  _forever_  to track you down again, Isabella."

"What—do—you— _want_?!" I demand, starting to panic.

"There's no need to be rude," he dismisses, holding his hands in a placating gesture. "I just want to talk."

"I don't have any answers for you," I say, and I hear my voice shake.

"Oh, I'm sure you do," he answers, a malicious glint in his eyes. "And you're not leaving until I get them."

 

 

The man—I never did remember his name, and he hasn't re-introduced himself—hovers his hand threateningly over the cast on my leg. "Where have you been all these years, Isabella?"

"Go to hell," I manage, trembling. I tense up, waiting for him to react, but he only drums his fingers on my cast, lightly enough that it doesn't hurt.

"There's no need to be so hostile," he tuts, and he pinches my bare toe almost playfully. "I'll ask you one more time, or else we're going to do it the hard way. Where—?"

"Leave me alone!" I shriek, jerking away from him.

"Tsk, tsk," he says. "That wasn't nice. Has nobody taught you any manners?"

"I killed the last guy who tried!" I threaten, trying to sit up but still too weak.

The man moves leisurely, pulling a pressed flower out of his jacket pocket. It's white and droopy, with five long petals that almost look pointed. "This is called Devil's Breath," he says, stroking one of the shriveled petals fondly. "It can be used to make a drug called scopolamine. Have you heard of it?"

"No," I answer, and I don't know why.

"It  _can_  be used in small doses for seasickness. But it wouldn't be called Devil's Breath if it were used for just that, would it?" He chuckles to himself, as if he's made a funny joke. "No, it's also a... ' _downer'_  drug. It slows the response time between your thoughts, making it very, very hard to think of lies. The best part? It has amnesiatic properties; you won't be able to remember any of this when it wears off."

"Let me go," I demand, knowing his answer.

"Not until I have my answers," he says. He takes a small bag of white powder out of his jacket, licks his finger, and dips it in. "Last chance, Isabella."

I scream.

He grabs my chin, pressing his fingers on either side of my jaw so I can't bite him, and he wipes the powder onto my tongue. Then, he pulls a water bottle out from somewhere and starts dumping it into my mouth. I choke, having inhaled some of it, and he stops, lifting me up into a sitting position so I can breathe. "Now, now, let's not pass out just yet, alright?"

" _Let me go_!" I yell as soon as I can breathe.

"Shh," he says, and he restrains me until I feel it setting in.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Sophie?" Someone is shaking my shoulder. "Time to wake up, Soph. Time for breakfast."

I jerk awake. One of the daytime nurses is standing by my bed.

My mouth is incredibly dry. "Had a weird dream," I report.

"A bad one?" she asks.

I nod slowly. "Think so. Sc—scary."

"Well, it's over now." She smiles kindly at me, and I try to return it, but I don't think I'm very successful.

Something about that nightmare wasn't right.

 

 

"Oh, did you hear about poor Trent? One of the night nurses?" one of the other patients asks at lunch time.

"Did he get fired?" I ask testily. There's nothing 'poor' about him, except for maybe his financial status, if he's broke enough he has to try unsuccessfully sell his patients.

"Fired? No, he got  _murdered_!" the patient gossips. "The security guards found him this morning! Said he'd been strangled to death!"

My fork drops from my hand. I can't help but feel like this had something to do with me.

 

 

A few days later, when I've managed to wipe my mind of my odd nightmare and the death of Trent the evil night nurse, I'm released from the hospital. Canada actually picks me up. "Why aren't you with Zack?" I ask irately.

"Alfred is with him. We thought we should probably get him out of my country, since that's the last place he checked in with his captors."

"Has he talked about it?"

Canada sighs and shrugs. "He insists that what happened was a good thing. And that his 'training' is a secret. That's all."

"He's been brainwashed," I lament.

"Yeah," he agrees.

"Have you tried reintroducing him to his family? He hasn't seen his own twin in three years."

"That's... not really a good idea," he says, scratching the back of his neck. When I give him a look, he clarifies, "How would you feel if you haven't seen your twin in three years, only to find out that he's been brainwashed, and he either doesn't know you or doesn't want to know you?"

"Pretty bad," I relent, reluctantly agreeing with his reasoning. I still think it would help Zack, but poor Josie would be pretty upset. "But if it works, wouldn't it be worth it?"

"Maybe," he says. "But if it doesn't?"

"Hm." I pull out my phone and turn it on. I wasn't able to use it at all when I was in the loony bin, so it's been shut off. "Did you talk to my mom about this?"

"Um, no," Canada says, and he quickly ushers me in the car. "I'm kind of... kidnapping you?"

"Matthew!" I protest as he shuts the door in my face. "Matt, this isn't funny!"

"I know, I know!" he says as he gets in the driver's seat and turns on the car. "It's just that, neither of you are going to like it. I was going to call her after I've moved you."

"Matt, let me out right now!" I demand.

"You haven't stopped getting my memories!" he reasons. "It's time to act!"

"I'm going to get your memories faster if I stay with you!" When he doesn't answer, I sigh. "Can I call her? I don't want her to worry."

"I'd rather you didn't," he says, but I'm already dialing her number.

"Hey, Soph, I was just about to head out—."

"Mom," I interrupt. "Mom. I'm with Matthew."

"Why? Is everything alright?"

I put the phone on speaker and hold it out. "Explain yourself, mister."

He sighs. "Hi, Dr. Pryce—or Dr. Taylor—whichever you prefer—."

"Cut the crap," I demand.

"Fine, fine." He scratches the back of his head. "It's not my idea, alright? Al and Arthur think Issa will be safer with one of us for a few weeks, until we get this whole Zack thing figured out."

"Are you serious? You're just going to take her without—."

"I know—I know, and I'm really, really sorry," he interrupts. "We just thought you should know that Issa's safe and with me and you don't have to worry—." Mom starts to argue, but he yells, "Okay thanks bye!" and hangs up.

"Canada," I say disapprovingly.

"I panicked!" he defends.

I sigh and text Mom that I'm okay. She asks what's going on; I respond that I'm not completely sure, but that I think it's doppelganger-related.

"What about Rover?" I ask, speaking for the first time in a few minutes. "My clothes and stuff?"

"We kinda... infiltrated your house."

"Great."

"Don't worry, we didn't pry or anything, and we can buy more of anything that we missed, but we've got Rover and some clothes for you."

"Fine, whatever," I huff, and I cross my arms, looking out the window.

"Issa, I know this is upsetting," he tries.

"Yeah, if you know it's upsetting, why are you doing it?!" A sudden rush of hatred towards Canada in particular washes through me, and I hiss in pain—my chest started hurting, right where my rib used to be broken. It hadn't pained me for three years.

Canada was explaining himself—making excuses for himself is more like it— when he notices me clutching at my side. "...Are you okay?"

"Chest hurt for a second, there," I mumble. "Thought that was healed."

"I can take a look at it when we get there," he says.

 

 

I sit in fuming but resigned silence for the rest of the way. We get to his cabin in Quebec in record time, considering the teleportation. I give a half-laugh of disbelief as I see through the cabin's window— "You really did steal my dog." Rover stands on his hind legs to look through the window, and he barks happily as he sees me exit the truck.

"Sorry," he apologizes again.

I don't say anything because I don't really forgive him. Rover knocks me over in his excitement in seeing me again. "Yes—ow—yes, I missed you too, buddy—," I coo, petting him from my spot on the ground. I ignore Canada when he tries to help me up, choosing to struggle to my feet by myself instead.

"I can help you get settled," he offers when I manage to stand again.

"No offense, but I really, really  _don't_  want your help," I quip.

"Issa, there's no need to get snippy with me."

"I'm snippy to everyone who kidnaps me."

"I didn't—." He stops. "Okay, maybe I did. But still—."

"What? You're justifying this as 'helping?'" I shoot back. "Pulling me away from my life isn't exactly helpful."

"You didn't seem to be enjoying your life, to be fair," he answers dryly. Then he flushes and says, "I'm sorry—that was mean."

"...It's true, though," I relent. I'm not done arguing, though. "Still, bringing me back into this environment isn't good for my mental health."

"I'm really sorry," he says, and he looks sincere. "It really wasn't my idea—it was Al and Arthur's." 

"When can I yell at them?"

"Not for a while," he tells me. "They're still trying to control Zack."

I roll my eyes. "Whatever." Then I turn around and hobble away, plopping in a cushy armchair by the fireplace without being invited. I make sure to prop up my leg. Rover jumps up on the ottoman and starts nibbling my cast.

I pull out my phone again, about to text Meg, when Canada swipes it out of my hands. "Hey!"

"I'm sorry, Issa—I'm really, really s—."

"If you say sorry one more time I'm going to hit you," I threaten.

"It's just—contact with the outside world is dangerous right now."

"If I'm going to be stuck here, I don't want to have to talk to just you," I snap, reaching for my phone again.

He backs out of my way. "I can't let you. I'm s—."

I slam my hands on the armrest to interrupt him. "You keep  _saying_  you're sorry, but you're not  _acting_  like it!"

"Issa, please, I don't want to fight with you," he pleads.

"Then give me back my phone!"

"I can't."

Tears of frustration and anger rise to my eyes, and I look away. "Where am I sleeping?"

"This way," he says gently, noticing. He leads me to a guest room. Rover dutifully follows. I let myself flop on the bed, holding my injured leg in the air. "If... if you need me... I'll be out here, eh?" Canada murmurs from the entrance, and he shuts the door behind him.

I wonder if I should be crying. I mean, I am, and I don't see myself stopping any time soon, but is it justified? I'm safe. It's not like Germany or Japan or a soldier is going to burst through the door at any moment and beat me up. But it's not like I can go home, either.

It's more like... they've just reopened a painful chapter of my life I thought I had had closed.

 

 

Canada knocks a few hours later. I'm laying on the bed on my back, mechanically stroking Rover as he snores with his head on my stomach. He tries to open the door, but I've barricaded myself in by shoving a chair under the handle. "Issa?"

"Go away," I call. Rover jerks out of slumber at the sound of my voice. "Not you," I whisper to him, pinching his floppy ear affectionately. He puts his head back down.

"I—I made dinner," he offers.

"I'm not hungry."

"Please open the door," Canada sighs.

"Or what? You'll hit me, or something?" I quip, not bothering to move.

"I'll be... very unhappy!" he threatens.

"Ooh, I'm trembling," I say sarcastically.

He sighs again. "Please?"

"Can't," I call back. "Leg's broken."

"You're being pretty childish. Aren't you 18 now?"

"Oh,  _I'm_  sorry—it's almost like I had my childhood  _stolen_  from me!" I shout. "I'll be as childish as I damn well please!"

"Issa," he calls disapprovingly.

"No! Y'know what—while I'm being childish—  _I want my mom_!" I yell. "Get my mom, and then we'll talk!"

"You really want her dragged into this?"

"Well—no, but—."

"Then stop being a brat and open the door," a new but familiar voice calls. It's America. "Or else I'll force it open."

"Al," I hear Canada whine, "that's pure oak...."

"Fine!" I snap, just because I don't want America to break the door down. With difficulty, I get up and move the chair out of the way. "Happy?" I snap as I yank the door open.

"Ecstatic," America deadpans. "I need to ask you some questions."

"Fine," I growl, knowing I have no choice.

"First thing... I'm... sorry you can't die," he says, softening slightly. "I never wanted immortality, either."

"Oh," I say, taken aback. "...Thanks?"

"Mm." He leads me back to the living room. Canada offers dinner again, but I refuse again. I'm too upset to eat. When I'm seated in the armchair I like with my foot propped up, he says, "There's been a weirdo hanging around here, so we can't stay here long."

"A weirdo?"

"Yeah. I think he's a hunter," America says grimly. "I'm about to go give him a piece of my mind."

"You  _know_  that's a bad idea," Canada reprimands, handing him a plate. He also sneakily puts another plate within my radius, even though I told him I'm not hungry. I would argue with him, but it's not worth it.

"So, what's your question?" I ask, shifting my broken leg a little bit.

"I wanted to know what memories of Canada's you've seen."

"Lots," I answer, leaning back. "War, peace, exciting, boring, scary, tranquil, you name it."

"That means it's probably not going to be long until the next phase starts," he muses.

"How far along is Zack?"

"Pretty far. I can... sense, I guess, his emotions, and he's getting mine. I'm working on... keeping my cool."

"Yeah, how's that going?" I ask sarcastically, knowing the answer.

"Not well!" he blurts. "I have a lot of feelings! I don't like keeping them all bundled up."

"That makes one of us." I, for one, like to keep my emotions private. Harder for people to take advantage of me if they don't know how I'm feeling. "How's... how's Zack feeling right now?"

"Bored," he answers easily. "He's down at my place in DC right now. Hoping that would jog some of his memories, but I don't think it has." He sighs. "I feel like a creeper admitting there's a kid tied up in my basement."

"He's not a kid anymore," I say. After a while of silence, I add, "I want to help him."

"I'd consider that if you weren't crippled right now," he dismisses. "But since you can't defend yourself, the answer is a big fat no."

I sigh. I guess I agree with that reasoning. "Fine."

 

 

Then the room explodes.

 

 

We all go flying from the detonation that happens at the front door. Debris rains all around me, and I hit my already-concussed head on the mantle and black out.

 

 

"Oh? A third?" A voice grates against my aching temples, and I feel weight shifting on top of me.

"Don't touch her!" someone else shouts, and my head throbs.

"Gag him," the first voice orders lazily. I realize that all of these voices are speaking in Japanese. I had wondered whether or not I would still be able to understand that. I just wish I could have learned under different, less painful circumstances. The person getting gagged roars in anger, and I hear chains clanking. All in all, my senses are overwhelmed, and I groan, trying to cover my ears.

"Oh, it's Isabella!" the first man gasps. "Dig her out." I feel the debris on me move again, but I do nothing to stop it.

"Y—you  _know_  her?!" a third asks incredulously. Some part of me recognizes this one.

"Of course! Isabella and I go way back." If we're friends, why don't I know his voice? "She's the one that led me here, after all!" I don't remember telling anyone about Canada's cabin....

The people clear all the broken wood pieces from me, and I feel hands on my face. "Isabella, can you hear me?"

"Nngh," I manage.

"She's alive. That's good." I try to open my eyes, but blood trickles down my face, blocking my vision. I weakly spit out a glob of the rusty liquid, too. "She could prove useful."

A thought occur to me, and I force my eyes open, even though blood contaminates the sensitive organs. "R—Rover?!"

"The dog?" he asks. "Unconscious, but alive. Relax, darling." I obey, too tired to care that I don't know who this is or what he's talking about. My dog is alive; that's what matters.

"Wh—what do you mean, when you say Isabella led you here?" the third voice demands.  _Canada_ , I realize.

"I'd tell you to ask her yourself, but she's in no state to talk. Plus, she wouldn't remember." The man grabs me under my arms and lifts me up halfway. Someone else grabs my ankles and helps move me. I whine in protest, feebly slapping at the hands. "As feisty as ever," he chuckles, lowering me to the floor.

I manage to open my eyes, blinking away droplets of blood. "Issa," Canada hisses at me. "Take the bobby pin out of your hair and give it to America." He's next to me, and his arms are secured behind his back with heavy-looking chains. He glances down at me, and I notice there's duct tape over his mouth. Even so, he attempts a reassuring smile.

This is important. Through the haze of pain, all I know is that this is  _important_. I inch my hand up towards my head. "Hurts," I whimper as I accidentally touch the source of the blood—a small but deep gash on my brow.

"I know, I know, I'm sorry," Canada whispers. "Be quiet, but hurry—please hurry."

So I try. I rip some of my hairs out in the process, but I manage to extract a bobby pin from just behind my ear. Slowly, I reach out and slip it into the nation's chained hands. He gets to work trying to pick the lock.

Footsteps come closer to me. I look up and I vaguely recognize the stranger. He has brown hair and a long nose, with several scars on his face. "Feeling better?" His accent sounds Russian.

"N—not really," I manage to say.

"That's too bad." He grins, showing a smile that's missing several teeth. "Remember me?"

"...Maybe?" Something tells me I should stall until America gets free, so I try that. "You're k— _kinda_  familiar, I think.... S—something 'bout the way your face's shaped...."

He chuckles. "I wouldn't expect you to remember. Scopolamine is a powerful drug."

"Scoliopede?" I ask. "That's a Pokémon. Bug and Poison type," I recite. "Purple beetle-horse-thing."

"Does she ever make sense?" he asks Canada.

"Not usually," he answers politely, but his teeth are gritted. "What are you going to do with us?"

"I've been waiting  _twenty years_  for the opportunity to speak with a country on equal terms. Just... let me enjoy this for a moment." His blue eyes scan over the three of us, his captives, and he grins again. "Okay. I have enjoyed it."

"This isn't very  _equal_ ," Canada quips, shaking his restraints to prove his point.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" the man says, his demeanor shifting to become darker. "Wretched creature."

"That's... mean," Canada says, looking slightly hurt. "What have—."

"You and your kind have stolen my livelihood!" the man snaps. "Wasted  _twenty years_  of research—turned my own son against me!"

"I don't even know your son!" he protests. "Please, you're making a mistake. We can talk about this, eh?"

"Oh, we're going to talk, all right," he agrees threateningly.

"I realize that you have a problem with countries," Canada says calmingly. "But Isabella has nothing to do with us."

"Then why is she living with you?" He reaches down and tilts my head, trying to see the cut on my brow better. "I'm not going to hurt her, unless you give me a reason to. That includes yourself, darling. You're going to behave yourself." He tweaks my nose affectionately.

"Never been particularly good at that," I manage, unable to do anything to get him away from me.

He retaliates by poking my cut. I gasp and wince. Canada says, "Hey!" and starts struggling, but the man presses harder at it. I whine, but he lets go before the pain becomes unbearable. "She's not my type," he says, stroking my hair out of my face. "I don't  _want_  to hurt her, but I will if you force me."

America finishes picking his locks, and he jumps to his feet. The man gasps and yanks me closer to him, fishing a knife out of his pocket and holding it to my throat. He's upset, so he doesn't seem to notice that he's already cut me.

The man has friends here that I didn't notice: four incredibly beefy men. Two of them rush at America—another jumps on top of Canada, trying to keep him incapacitated—the last drags the first man to his feet, speaking to him in Russian. The man shakes him off, shouting in the same language.

"ENOUGH!" the man shouts, supporting my limp body while keeping the knife against my neck. "Stop, or I'll cut her throat!"

"I can't die," I remember. "And 'm not scared."

"Shut up," he hisses at me, digging the blade deeper in my neck. I feel blood trickle down my collar, dampening my shirt.

"You should leave while you can," I suggest, watching with disgust and surprise as America snaps the spine of one of the men, either killing or permanently paralyzing him.

"I—," he falters. "I've never been this close to success before! I can't just back down now!"

Canada has gotten himself free. "You can, and you  _will_ ," he says threateningly.

The man's friend whispers in Russian. They're the only two attackers left standing; the other three are all either dead or unconscious. The man makes a choice.

He shoves me forward, knowing I'm too weak to right myself. Canada catches me. "It's okay, Issa—I got you—you're okay." While he's doing that, the man and his friend escape over the wreckage of Canada's cabin.

Am I okay? It's suddenly very, very hot in here, and I'm sweating. "Got the artery," Canada manages shakily at America.

"Put pressure on it!"

"How?! That'll choke her!"

"I don't know—just  _do_  it!" And he runs out the hall, chasing the two bad guys.

He puts a hand awkwardly over the gash on my neck. "Breathe, okay? Just keep breathing."

"Trying," I gasp.

"You can heal yourself!" Canada realizes. When I shake my head, he insists, "You  _can_. I  _believe_  in you. Just concentrate on closing the wound. Or—at least—slowing the blood."

So I try that. I picture the cut on my neck, and then I picture my neck without it. I focus on there being no injuries there—just pale, unbroken skin—just as it should be.

"You're doing great," Canada encourages. "Just a little more."

I've lost too much blood. I pass out.

 

 

 

"She'll be fine," a voice says. "She's a trooper."

 

 

 

I slowly regain consciousness, and I realize I'm sweating. The summer sunlight dances on my face, sluggishly heating it. It feels like there's a blockage in my throat, keeping me from swallowing. I still can, but it hurts. It feels like strep, but worse.

"Oh!" a gentle voice exclaims. "You're up!"

I know at once what I need. "Water?"

"Of course." Canada holds the rim of a cup to my lips, gently tipping some liquid into my mouth. He starts to pull it away after one sip, but I'm so thirsty that I follow.

"Thanks," I manage when I've drained the glass. "How long've I been out?"

"Just two days." He puts a cool cloth on my forehead. "You've managed to mostly heal yourself, but that took a lot out of you. You don't have a country to regenerate yourself from, so you borrowed energy from your future self."

"Oh. Future me wants her energy back," I joke, closing my eyes again.

He chuckles. "Sorry, kiddo."

I frown. "My leg doesn't hurt."

"I know. You healed yourself."

"Not just the...?" I gesture weakly at my neck.

"Nope. As far as I can tell, you got most of all your injuries. You'll have a pretty wicked scar, and you'll probably need a crutch for a while longer, but that's okay. We can let those heal on their own, eh?"

"Well, I know how to heal now," I remember. "I could fix myself if I wanted, right?"

"You probably could," he agrees. "But then you'd be feeling like this for a longer amount of time, and we don't want that."

"Right," I agree.

"You probably should stay in bed for the rest of the day," he fusses, dabbing sweat out of my eyes.

"Okay." A thought occurs to me. "Rover! Where's my boy?"

"He's at the vet. He'll live—don't worry."

I relax. "What happened?"

"What do you remember?"

"Explosion.... Guy saying he wanted to talk to you.... He cut my neck...."

"Yeah." Canada sighs. "He was a hunter. I'm not sure, but I'm pretty sure that was Dmitri Petrakis."

"...Petrakis," I repeat. "I know that name...."

"You remember Dimah?"

I nearly bolt upright, but I manage to keep myself down. "That was  _Dimah's_  dad?!"

He nods grimly. "Pretty sure."

" _Damn_!" is all I can manage.

"Damn, indeed," he agrees.

"Where are we?"

"Washington DC." He frowns. "Couldn't stay in Quebec. My house is swarming with police."

"And partially destroyed," I remember.

"Yeah." He looks away.

"I'm sorry, Canada," I say sincerely.

"Yeah, I was meaning to ask—when have you met Dmitri Petrakis before? He seemed to know you."

I think about it. My head still hurts, but a lot less than what I've felt for the past week or so. "I think.... Oh! Three years ago, outside the Lincoln Memorial—he gave me a business card with his number on it and asked me to call if I saw any countries."

"He said you're the one who led him there."

I shrug helplessly. "I don't know."

"He... he mentioned... scopolamine. Do you know what that is?"

"A truth-telling drug with amnesiatic properties.... Holy sh—!" I sit up and regret it, groaning as I make myself lay back down. "You don't think—?"

"Have you had any weird dreams lately? I mean—besides memories."

I find myself nodding. "In the hospital.... You're telling me I got kidnapped  _again_ , and I don't even  _remember_  it?!"

"That's what it seems like," he nods grimly.

I curse. "Should I feel violated about this if I can't remember it?"

"Absolutely," he agrees. "I mean—it's awful that it happened, and I won't blame you for feeling bad about it, but you have to remember that what happened wasn't your fault. You can't lie when you're drugged—I know that personally."

"I know." I wipe my eyes. "Did...?"

"No." Canada shakes his head grimly. "He got away."

 

 

I'm able to get up by the time Canada goes to pick up Rover from the vet, so I go with him. Rover is feeling a lot better, but he's limping, and he's a little sluggish. He still tries to obey his commands, but he's concussed, so he gets his tricks mixed up. I tell him to lay down, and he offers me his paw for a handshake. "Oh, bud," I lament, holding his chin in my hands. "I'm so sorry."

"He'll be okay," the vet says. "Just don't overexert him. How did you say this happened?"

"Um, we were on a run in the woods, and I let him off leash, and he fell down a hill," Canada lies. She must buy it, because she gives him one last affectionate pat on the head and lets us go.

"You made him sound like a klutz," I tell him when we get in the car. Rover is probably the only dog I know that doesn't like car rides, so he climbs into the front seat to sit on my lap since that's obviously the safest place to be. It doesn't matter that he weighs 100 pounds—he  _is_  a lapdog.

"Well, I couldn't tell them that he got blown up," he reasons.

"I know," I respond. "But you're a smartie, aren't you?" I stroke his fur. He licks my hand.

"Accidents happen," he says, patting the yellow lab.

"Yeah."

 

 

A few days later, I decide that I'm bored. While the countries are busy, I decide the explore America's house, which I haven't done yet. It's just as I remember—the game room, where Zack and I once played foosball... the living room, where Zack helped me organize America's games... the kitchen, where Zack and I hid behind that wall so we could eavesdrop on the countries' video call with Germany....

I miss Zack.

I know he's around here somewhere. I'm just not sure  _where_ , exactly. Actually, yes I do—America said he's in the basement. But the basement is.... I open several doors on the ground floor before I find a set of stairs that go down instead of up.

As a last-minute thought, I slip a paring knife into my jeans pocket before descending the stairs.

I pad down as quietly as I possibly can. The basement is surprisingly cozy—it's like a little den. There's shag carpeting and couches. In the farthest corner from the stairs, a bed. A cot, actually. A figure lays on it, breathing slowly.

Against my better judgement, I step off the last stair and towards him. I glance around the dimly-lit room. Sunlight is streaming in from a window on the wall, too high and small to escape from.

In his sleep, Zack mumbles, "Josie."

I fight back tears. He misses his twin. It's my fault they were separated.

From the stairs, someone hisses, "Hey!"

I whirl around. America must have noticed the open door and investigated. At the noise, Zack jolts awake. He sits up and scoots away from me when he notices me. Then, he grabs his glasses. His hands are chained, I notice. When he recognizes me, he scrambles towards me, snarling, hands outstretched into claws.

I back up. Zack jerks to a stop—his ankle is chained to the cot, so he can't go anywhere. "Hey! What have we talked about?!" America shouts. "No attacking people!"

"It's the  _Weapon_!" he yells. Desperately, he tugs on his restraints, fruitlessly trying to break free. " _Please_ , you don't  _understand_!  _I HAVE TO KILL HER_!"

America grabs my arm and shoves me a little towards the stairs. "No, you don't! Calm down!" To me, "Get back upstairs." I open my mouth to argue, but he gives me a look so scathing I decide against it.

"Please— _please_!" he screams, absolutely besides himself. "She has to die—I have to kill her!"

"No, no, no," America shushes. " _Go_ , Issa!"

Reluctantly, tears starting to fall, I obey. Partially. I go up the stairs enough that I'm out of sight, and I sit, trying to listen. "Why is this so important, buddy?"

"I have to," Zack insists. "I  _have to_."

"I know, I know—but  _why_?"

"She's  _dangerous_!"

"That's not a good enough reason." When Zack won't stop swearing that  _he has to kill me_ , America says, "Listen— _listen_ , Zack— _she can't die_. You remember how you can't die? She's the same way."

"...No," he manages, and he sounds like a man who's suddenly lost all hope. "No,  _no_ —you're  _lying_!"

"I'm not," he says, and he sounds sad.

"You're lying!" Zack says again, and I realize he's crying. "I have to kill her—I  _have_  to!"

"It's okay, buddy," America whispers. "Just calm down, alright? Everything's gonna be okay."

I'm intruding. As quietly as I can, I tiptoe back up the stairs. Canada is searching for me. "Issa? Is everything—?" He stops when he sees me by the door to the stairs. "Oh."

"He's in so much pain," I manage, trying to keep my voice coherent through my tears.

Canada pulls me into a hug, and I reluctantly allow it, but only because I need a good hug right now. "Shh. Why were you down there?"

"I m—missed him," I admit.

Their voices waft up the stairs. "When have I ever lied to you?"

" _WHEN YOU SWORE YOU'D PROTECT ME!_ " Zack screams. There's a very poignant silence, and Canada tries to usher me away, but I stand my ground, listening. "...You s— _swore_  you'd  _protect_ me...!" Zack sobs. "But you  _didn't_! They  _got me_!"

"Zack, I'm so sorry," America says, and it's hardly audible from here.

" _Three years_!" Zack cries. "Three years of  _torture!_  Three years of  _mind games_! God, I almost went  _crazy_!"

"I know," he soothes. "You're safe now. Shh, you're okay."

"No," he manages. "I won't be okay until the Weapon is dead."

"The Weapon has a name," America scolds gently.

"Isabella Nicole Pryce," he recites. "Born to Michelle and David Pryce, elder sister to Renae Pryce, born July 1st, eighteen years old—."

"Shh, shh."

"Come on," Canada interrupts quietly, and he leads me away. Rover, who was sleeping on the couch, stands up when he senses my distress. I sit next to him, and he licks at my tears.

After about ten minutes, America appears, wiping at his eyes. Canada and I pretend not to notice. I wait for a few minutes, then break the silence by pointing out, "You said 'remember.'"

"What?"

"You said, 'Remember how you can't die.' What does that mean?"

"What do you think it means?" he asks harshly.

"Al," Canada reprimands.

America sighs. "You know how in spy movies, sometimes the bad guy will have a poison sac installed into one of their teeth?"

I wince. "Oh,  _no_. How come he didn't use that immediately?"

"Scared, maybe? It was actually... right after we told him you'd tried to commit suicide. I think he assumed you were dead, and that meant that he had failed at his mission. For whatever reason,  _he's_  the one that has to kill you, not anyone else."

"I have to talk to him." I stand up.

"Absolutely not," America denies, standing, as well. "You know how much  _progress_  we've made that you just destroyed?!"

"It sounded like you guys just made some more progress!" I protest.

"Zack's worn out," Canada tells me. "Let him rest for a while."

I sit back down. "Fine."

 

 

From that day on, they keep a lock on the basement door.

 

 

"I want to talk to him," I tell them the next day.

"No," America says simply.

 

 

"Can I talk to Zack today?"

"Not today, Issa."

 

 

"Today?"

"No."

 

 

"Can I—?"

" _No!"_

 

 

I stand in front of Canada the fifth day. "I want to go to college."

He definitely wasn't expecting that. "College?"

"Yeah."

"Where?"

"I've already been accepted to Winnipeg Community College," I tell him, holding up a letter that I saved from them. "My friend's going there, too."

"The friend that figured out your identity?"

"Yeah, Meg."

"What will you major in?"

"Criminal justice, with a minor in studio art," I answer without hesitation. "I want to be a sketch artist for the police. I'll be trained in self-defense, and I'll be able to help other people."

He raises his eyebrows. "You really have this thought out."

"Yeah."

"When do classes start?"

"August 18th. So, in about a month."

"...I'll think about it."

 

 

I corner Canada in the kitchen the next morning. "So, have you thought about it?"

He sighs. "Yeah."

"And?"

"...It's not safe, Issa," he says, looking sad.

Emotions well inside me. "It's never going to be safe!" I protest. "I don't want to spend the rest of my life  _hiding_!"

"He gave you your answer," America snaps, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "Drop it."

 

 

I sit in my room, curled up into a ball with Rover right beside me. I argued with them so angrily that Canada suggested I take a time out. It's just not  _fair_! All I want to do is be a normal kid, doing things that kids my age do. I want to be able to go to college! I want to be able to talk to my friends! I want to not be under constant surveillance! I don't think that's asking too much.

Someone knocks on the door. "Issa?"

My voice is muffled since my face is buried in a pillow. "Go away."

"Come out here, please."

"No."

"You'll want to," he encourages.

I sigh and remain motionless for a few moments. Then I slowly get up and pad to the door. Rover follows.

I follow Canada to the living room and stop dead in my tracks. There, sitting on the couch, is Zack.

"Z—Zack," I manage. "H—hi."

He's sitting very rigidly, as if trying with extreme effort to remain seated. "Hello," he greets stiffly and formally.

I move around the couch to sit opposite of him. "H—how are you?"

"Fine," he answers. A moment passes, and he corrects himself. "Not fine."

"I wouldn't expect you to be," I dismiss.

He nods, fidgeting with his handcuffs. "And you?"

"Not great, either," I admit. "I've been worried about you."

"Why?"

"You're my friend," I answer. It's obvious that he's been conditioned to think that nobody cares about him. I scoot forward a little bit. "I missed you."

"Why?" He seems genuinely confused.

"Why not?" He doesn't look like he knows how to answer that, so nobody says anything for a while. "So, why did you finally want to talk to me?"

Zack looks away. "I don't."

"Oh." Silence rings again. "Then why did you agree?"

He's quiet for a few more moments, and then he shrugs. "I was... curious."

"I'll take curious over hostile or panicked," I say. For a while, I study him. His hair reaches his shoulder, and he's got the beginnings of a stubble growing on his jaw, displaced slightly because of scars on his face. He's definitely not the frightened little boy I remember. Now, he's a man, but he's just as lost and confused. "...Why are you so determined to kill me?" I hear myself ask, my voice low.

He twitches, and he strains against his handcuffs a little bit. "Issa?" Canada speaks up. "Maybe steer the conversation away from killing you."

I nod, but I don't know what else to talk to him about. That's all I want to know—what did they do to him to make him want so desperately to be the end of me?

I clear my throat awkwardly. "How... are you enjoying yourself here?" I ask, and as soon as the words leave my mouth, I know it's a stupid question.

"I'm not," he answers simply.

"Right." We're quiet again. "Is there anything you—."

"I want to finish my mission," he says simply, pulling a little bit harder against his restraints. He hasn't gained America's super-strength yet, by the looks of it, but he's no weakling. Unfortunately for him, the cuffs are stronger, and the skin on his wrists breaks. All of a sudden, he relaxes. "But I can't, can I? You can't die."

"It seems that way," I confirm sadly. "...Can I ask what—."

"My mission is to kill Isabella Pryce, the Ultimate Weapon. Then I'm supposed to bring back a vial of your blood to my masters as proof."

"Your... masters?" I repeat numbly, disgust filling me. "They're making you call them your masters?"

"Yes," he says, as if he doesn't see the issue in that.

"Oh, Zack," I whisper, trying not to cry in front of him. "Wh—what did they do to you?"

"Discipline," he answers easily, with the smallest hint of a grimace. "Training."

"And you're _okay_  with that?"

Zack is silent, pondering my question. "What I want and what I'm okay with doesn't matter."

"It  _does_  matter!" I fling back, standing. "Why wouldn't it?!"

"I... don't remember... being... listened to," he says slowly, quietly. "They tell me what to do, and I do it. Or else there's consequences. Even here," he adds.

"Well, that's because the only thing you want to do is kill her, and we're not down with that," America answers.

I go around the coffee table and sit next to Zack, despite the countries' warnings. He leans away from me. "You're  _free_ , Zack—don't you get it? Nobody's going to hurt you anymore! The only reason they keep you restrained is because you're a danger to yourself and to others. You don't need to fulfill your dumb  _mission_.  _They don't own you_."

He considers that. "They knew that I might try to run away and ditch my handlers. So... they have something I want."

"And what's that?" America asks gently.

He hesitates. "...A way to die. True freedom."

"Oh, Zack," I lament. I reach out to take one of his restrained hands, but he pulls away, scooting down the couch from me. I don't follow, trying to respect his personal space. "You can't die until you break the connection you have with America."

"How do I do that?" he asks eagerly.

I shake my head. "I don't know."

He slumps over, burying his face in his hands. "This isn't  _fair_ ," I hear him whisper to himself.

"I know, Zack," I answer, starting to cry again. Hesitantly, I reach out and lay a gentle hand on his back. He flinches, but he doesn't jerk away like I thought he might, so I take that as a good sign. "I know." 


	14. Play Nice

They seem to have sapped the free will out of Zack. He doesn't know anything about who he is or what he likes. "What do you want to eat tonight?" America asks him later, when we've all calmed down.

"...I don't know," he replies, sitting limply on the couch, exhausted after his cry session. It seems like an ordinary answer at the moment.

"What do you like?"

"...I don't know."

"...You don't know what you like to eat," America deadpans.

"Yes," he answers wearily.

"How much do you know about yourself?" America exits the kitchen to stand behind the bend of the couch, putting his hands on it.

"I apparently can't die," he says. "And I'm good at following orders."

The country frowns. "That it?"

"...You people call me Zack, so I assume that's my name," he says, unease dripping into his expression.

I'm horrified at the lack of knowledge he has. They've obviously done something to him to make him lose his previous memories, make him a blank slate, ready and willing to do their bidding. "...Tell me your last name," I speak up.

He looks away. "I don't know."

"Your sister's name? Your parents' names?"

"...I didn't even know I had a sister," he admits quietly, very pointedly ignoring my gaze.

"What did they call you?" America asks. He jumps over the back of the couch and sits down. Zack tries to scoot away from him, but he stops when he realizes that I'm right next to him. To avoid the both of us, he fixes his stare on his cuffed hands.

"Lavender," he says. A beat passes, and he adds softly, "...But I think I like Zack better."

"That's good!" I interject, wanting to move closer but resisting that urge because I know it'll make him more uncomfortable. "You learned something about yourself!"

"Why Lavender?" America asks. "That's a girl's name."

"That used to be  _my_  codename," I answer. "It's what you get when you mix red, white, and blue." 

"Oh," he says.

"I didn't know that," Zack says.

"Do you know your colors?" I ask, trying to keep the anger out of my voice. They couldn't have taken  _that_  much from him....

He nods, to my relief. "The basics. I can read and spell and do math, too. I also know my geography. And I can speak a lot of different languages."

"Good," I answer, relaxing. "...But you don't know anything about yourself."

He shakes his head. "Just what I've already told you."

I hear myself sigh, even though I didn't mean to. I'm afraid of coming off like I'm judging him. I reach out to take his hand, stop halfway, and bring it back. "Your name is Zachary Richards," I tell him, my voice quiet. "You have a twin sister named Josie. You used to live in Philadelphia."

As I watch him, his lip trembles, but when he speaks, his voice is strong. "That's irrelevant."

"It's not irrelevant—it's  _you_!" I argue.

"Who I am is irrelevant!" he says, and he snaps his gaze to glare at me. "Who I  _am_  doesn't help me complete my  _mission_!" His fingers twitch, and I see him strain against his handcuffs. I can see the malice in his eyes, the  _fury_ , but I'm not scared of him.

"Your  _mission_  is irrelevant!" I reply, unfazed. "It's  _stupid_! I can't die—your  _mission_  was a wild goose chase!"

Zack grimaces. "You've ruined everything," he mumbles as he looks back at his hands, still clenched into fists.

I fight back tears at his accusation. After a few moments, I compose myself. "I know," I respond coolly. "But I'm going to be the one to fix it."

"How?" he snarls. "You can't  _fix_  me—I'm not broken!"

"Maybe not completely," I respond calmly, "but you're more damaged than you realize."

He buries his face in his hands for a few minutes, looking like he's trying to control his emotions. "...Why would you help me? I've done nothing but try to kill you since we met."

"Because we  _didn't_  just meet," I answer easily, trying to look him in the eyes. "We were friends before this happened to you."

"I didn't exist before this happened to me."

Not caring about the consequences, I reach out and grab his hands with both of mine. "Yes—you— _did_ ," I enunciate, not letting him go, even when he starts trying to get away. After a few seconds, I release him, and he scoots towards America. "Your name is Zachary Richards! You have a twin sister named Josie! You were impulsive and  _stupid_ , but we were friends anyway! You can't be telling me you don't remember  _anything_  from before you were taken?!"

He wipes at his nose. "...Bits and pieces," he admits. "I do remember being stupid. Deciding to be...."

"...A decoy," I finish. "For  _me_. And I told you not to, but you did it anyway."

Recognition flashes through his eyes, and he slowly touches his cheek where I had kissed him all those years ago. "...That's right."

"You were trying to repay me," I continue, unconsciously moving forward. "And I told you that you didn't have to do that for me, but you insisted. Then we parted ways, and the next I heard, Germany was saying that he had you tied up and asleep in his van, and I was so scared," I remember, half-babbling. "...Wh—what do you remember?"

"...Running," he says quietly, his eyes emotionless as he delves into memories that are likely very painful for him. "Then... getting caught. Then... waiting. Waiting for... God, it felt like years, but that was just the beginning. Just... waiting. For them to do _something_ —but they  _didn't_ , not for a few days, not even to give me food or water.  _They_  were waiting... for me to become too weak to fight... for me to break, I guess...." He seems to realize that he's crying again, and he wipes his eyes. "'m sorry," he mumbles.

"For what?" I ask gently.

"...I dunno," he admits, his voice shaking. "...Breaking my promise," he says at last, turning to look me in the eyes.

A watery laugh escapes me. "It's not your fault, dumbass," I curse affectionately, and I open my arms for a hug. He cautiously accepts, keeping his hands to himself but burying his face in my shoulder. "It's okay now," I promise. "You'll get through this."

 

 

Zack isn't allowed free reign after that. He's still kind of unstable. I'm disappointed but not surprised. He's not going to just want to stop killing me just like that.

He is  _almost_  allowed to roam the house unrestrained, but there is an... incident. In the middle of the night, he finds his way to my room, and he stands there, watching me sleep, until I wake up that morning. He seems to realize how off that makes him look, and he slinks back down to the basement. I confront him later, and he admits that he was trying to decide whether to smother or strangle me. He agrees that maybe that isn't the best, and that he should probably be kept in handcuffs until these homicidal urges pass.

Once Rover figures out that I'm not scared of Zack, he senses how emotionally distressed he was, and, like the good boy he is, decides to help.

Zack's not all that fond of dogs, though. "He bit me," he says, recoiling as Rover puts a paw up for a handshake. "I needed stitches."

"That's okay," I answer. "Go lay down." He whines but follows orders, flopping over with a huff. "See, he's a PTSD therapy dog," I explain. "He's helped me out a lot. He can sense when I'm about to have a panic attack, and he helps me either calm down, or he leads me to a safe place where I can ride it out. One time," I stop and laugh at the memory in high school, "he wanted me to curl up with him under a desk."

"And did you?"

"I wasn't very coherent, so, yeah, I did," I answer, shrugging. "My good boy knows best." Rover wags his tail without lifting his head. "You're sure you don't want his help?"

"...I don't know," he says, which I've come to understand as meaning, "No, but I'm uncomfortable telling you that."

"That's okay," I tell him again. "Maybe you're more of a cat person."

"There's a stray that comes around sometime at night," America offers, listening in to our conversation to make sure he's not going to go berserk. "I'll see how friendly she is tonight, if she shows."

So, a few hours later, America steps outside, and he comes in with a wriggling tabby cat wrapped in a towel. "She's got bugs," he tuts, reaching out and crushing one with his fingers.

The kitty mews, happy with her situation, and I hear purring. I'm standing a ways back with Rover's harness in my hand; he's wagging his tail and not listening to his command to  _stay_. I'm afraid he'll spook the cat, and we wouldn't want that.

Zack stands there, eyes wide, staring incredulously at the feline. "You wanna pet her?" Slowly, he nods, and he lifts a finger to touch her fur. He barely does when he jerks back. "What's the matter?"

"Soft," he whispers, in absolute awe of the tiny, malnourished animal. He reaches out to pet her again, and the cat squirms. She twists in America's arms, out of the towel, and onto Zack's shoulder. He gasps, standing stock-still, seeming to be afraid of disturbing her. "...Purring," he says, and a smile spreads over his normally-hard features as the cat rubs her flea-covered face against his.

"Do you wanna keep her?" America offers generously.

He nods vigorously, beaming, and he pets her with one of his cuffed hands.

"Here," America says, and he finally unlocks Zack's handcuffs. He's shocked, and he tests his newfound freedom by petting his new friend again. He picks her up, cradling her in his arms, and he gives a soft, gentle laugh that I haven't heard in years.

"Thank you," he says, unable to keep himself from grinning.

"Don't make me regret it," America says, only half-teasing. "If you're going to keep her, she needs a bath, and I'm not going to do that. She's your responsibility now."

"Okay," he agrees, seeming numb with happiness.

"Do you have a name for her?"

He studies the cat, runs his fingers over her soft, tawny fur, looks into her brilliant green eyes. Finally, he settles with, "Poppy."

 

 

Poppy becomes Zack's best friend, just as Rover is mine. The cat, which the vet estimated to be around two years old, gets spayed and de-bugged and de-wormed. Zack carried the drugged and recovering cat around with him until she's well enough to walk on her own. After that, I never see one without the other close by. Since Canada fusses so much, Zack has to wear the fancy bracelets while he's upstairs, and Poppy rides around on his shoulder like a witch's familiar.

I think it's really improving his mental health, having a cat. He's still depressed of course—he's been kept in captivity and tortured for three straight years, and then he was manipulated into trying to accomplish an impossible task, only to have his hopes of peace come crashing down around him. A cat isn't going to fix that.

But the days where he's bad, when his fingers twitch towards my neck, or he grips a pointy object a little too tightly, Poppy is there for him. She curls up in his lap, purring like an engine, or she'll lay on top of his clenched fists, still purring. Or, if he's  _really_  bad, she jumps on his shoulder and nips his ear. The sudden pain snaps him out of it, and he cradles her in his arms and nuzzles his face in her fur.

 

 

The problem?

I'm allergic to cat dander.

 

 

"...I'm sorry for telling you that this was your fault," he tells me one day. "I'm... remembering more. You were against it, but I didn't listen to you."

"That's okay," I answer, gently nudging him. He's becoming more okay with friendly touches, as long as I'm not holding on to him for too long. "...I blamed myself for a long time," I admit.

"So did I. And America," he says, a faraway look in his eyes. Poppy hops onto his shoulder and nuzzles his hair. "I guess I... didn't want to believe that it was my fault."

"That's understandable," I say.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

Zack hesitates. "...How many times have you died?"

I think about it. "Well... anywhere between two to three times, I think. I... jumped off of an overpass and should have split my head open. Then we were attacked, and I hit my head on the mantle really hard... I don't know if that should've killed me or not, but my head was already super-sore.... Then I had my throat slit." I show him the mostly-healed scar on the side of my neck. "That wasn't very fun. I was unconscious for two days."

He nods. "I'm sorry."

I nod, dismissing his apology. "It's okay. ...What about you?"

Zack's eyes darken. "A lot," he answers without needing to think about it. "Towards the end, they... they would kill me just to prove that I couldn't die."

"Oh my God," I whisper, horrified.

"I've been shot in the head... drowned... electrocuted...." He trails off, somber as he thinks back. "My least favorite is when they starved me for about three weeks. Still made me train, and everything, but they wouldn't give me any food or water. I eventually collapsed, and they beat me within an inch of my life, but I physically could not get back up."

My eyes are watery. "I'm so sorry," I murmur, touching his hand.

He still has his thousand-yard-stare going on when he continues, not acknowledging me. "I would beg for them to kill me, before I knew I couldn't die. When they were sure that I couldn't... they stabbed me. Waking up after that... it was... awful," he whispers.

"Zack, you don't have to talk about it," I offer, more for my own sake than his.

"They promised there was a way for me to die," he says, the sadness palpable in his voice.

"There is," I find myself saying, but I'm not sure how comforting that is. "You just have to break your connection to America first.

"How do I do that?"

"I really don't know," I answer honestly. "The countries are trying to figure that out."

"How far along are they to figuring it out?"

"I don't think they have a clue," I sigh, letting my wavering faith in them show. I wipe at my watering eyes.

"Why are you crying?" he asks gently. He's been working on his empathy, and it's going pretty well.

"I'm not," I answer honestly. "Cat hair in my eyes."

 

 

The next day, I realize I can sense Canada's feelings. I'm sitting on the couch, reading a book that I found in America's library, and he's upstairs. Poppy runs out from under a chair, scaring him. I'm so startled that I throw my book. Then, when he relaxes, I do too.

"...What was  _that_?" Zack asks, retrieving it for me. "Too scary for you?"

"No, it was Poppy," I answer, taking my book back.

"...She's not even around," he notices.

"I know," I say. Somehow I know, "She's upstairs, and she just spooked Canada."

"How did you know that?" Canada himself asks, appearing from the hall, and he hands the ball of mischief to her owner.

"...I just did," I shrug.

He sighs. "This is becoming a problem."

"I  _told_  you," I say, standing. "We're just going to progress faster if we're together!"

"Well, where else do you want to go?" he asks, exasperated.

"Winnipeg Community College!" I answer easily, my anger flaring.

"I told you, that's a bad idea!"

"Well, what if I just go back home, with my mom?" I suggest.

"That's not a good idea, either!"

"I'm not fourteen anymore!" I hear myself shout. "I'm an adult now! You can't keep treating me like a kid!"

"Issa," he reprimands, "there are things going on that you will never understand."

"Try me." I square my shoulders.

"I can't," he says, sighing. "It's against the rules."

"What, I'm not a country, so I can't know?!" I demand.

"Yes."

I take a deep breath and pinch the bridge of my nose, breathing deeply. "Tell me one thing," I manage calmly after a while. "...Does the rest of the world know what's been happening?"

"No," he answers, and somehow I know he's telling the truth.

"Why the  _hell_  not?!" A sudden twinge of pain crosses through my chest where my rib was broken, but it isn't severe, so I ignore it.

"We're trying to handle this  _discreetly_." He crosses his arms. "Germany and Japan are major world players; they've made it clear that revealing what's going on with you doppelgangers to the rest of the world is an act of war."

"They tried to have you guys  _replaced_!" I blurt. "With  _us!_  Against our wills! How is  _that_  not an act of war?!"

"The six of us have decided to overlook it in hopes of keeping the peace."

"And you didn't ask us if we were okay with that."

"Do you  _want_  to start World War III?" he snaps. "Because it sounds like you do!"

Zack takes a hesitant step forward. "Guys... you should... calm down," he says, looking nervous.

I take a few deep breaths, and the sharp pain in my chest goes away. "You're right," I say, and I  _only_  agree because I want to make Zack feel like his opinion matters. "I think... maybe I've just gone a little bit stir-crazy."

"That makes two of us," Canada huffs.

"How about... I go run some errands?" I offer. "We could use some groceries." When he looks like he's about to argue, I point out, "It'll take half an hour, and I could really use the fresh air."

"Ask America," he says, and he stalks away to the guest room he's been living in.

I sigh, but I find America in his office. "Can I go out, for, like half an hour? I could pick up some groceries."

He doesn't look up from his work. "Did you—?"

"Canada told me to ask you."

He sighs, then shrugs. "Fine. Keys are by the door. Don't wreck it."

"Could I bring Zack?"

"No, I don't think he's ready."

"Okay. Can I have some money for groceries?"

"Sure." He pulls out his wallet and hands me a 20 dollar bill. "Hey—will you stop by Starbucks and get me some coffee?"

"Absolutely." I stuff the bill in my pocket. "I'll be back in thirty minutes."

"Don't get into trouble."

"I never do," I joke grimly.

 

 

I take the grocery list from the fridge. "I'm sorry you can't go," I tell Zack.

"It's okay," he says. "I'm fine. Plus, I wouldn't be able to bring Poppy."

"I'll take Rover. See, that's the good thing about having a service dog; he can come with me places other animals normally wouldn't."

He shrugs. "I like Poppy better."

"That's okay." I take America's car keys from their spot on the peg on the wall. "Well, I'll be back soon."

"I'll miss you," he says. Then, he seems to process what he said, and he turns and powerwalks away.

I smile, feeling blood rush to my face. "C'mon, boy," I say, taking Rover's leash.

 

 

I drive to the nearest supermarket and get the few items that were on America's grocery list. It's a beautiful day, so I park and get out at Starbucks instead of going through the drive-through. "One venti coffee, please," I ask the barista.

"Name?"

"Sophie," I answer. After three years of responding to that, the name comes easily from my lips.

"I'll bring it to you when it's ready," he smiles.

I sit at one of the barstools, keeping Rover on a short leash, and I adjust his harness for him. I'm always nervous about bringing him into food establishments. He's allowed, legally, but that doesn't account for the dirty stares the waiters give me when a hairy, slobbery dog comes in and lays on their clean floor.

After a few more minutes, someone puts a coffee cup down on the table next to me. I reach out but freeze, a "thanks" faltering on my lips when I read the name scribbled on the side of the cardboard.

_Isabella_.

With a small gasp, I look at the person who gave me the coffee, and I recognize his gap-toothed smile. "Hello, there," Dmitri Petrakis greets sunnily.

"I'll scream," I threaten immediately, flinching away from him. Another man, a big and tall one, blocks my way to the door. I assume he's with him.

"There's no need for that," he dismisses. "I just want to talk."

"Well, I don't!" I stand, abandoning America's coffee, but I stop when he puts something on the table.

"You're forgetting your newspaper," the hunter grins, showing me the gun resting between the folded pages.

"I'm not afraid of that," I snarl.

"Oh, I know  _you're_  not," he says easily. "But what about him?" He gestures towards another patron, an elderly man resting with an iced macchiato. "Or her?" He nods at a pregnant lady in line. "Or them?" at a family with small children that just entered the restaurant.

"You'll make a scene," I manage through gritted teeth.

"I know," he sighs. "So, I'd rather handle this... civilly. Please, have a seat." He gestures towards the chair that I just vacated.

Slowly, I do, whispering for Rover to lay down. His goon sits between me and the door, just in case.

"Smart girl," he praises, pulling his newspaper closer to himself in case I were to make a grab for it.

"What do you want?" I ask, keeping my voice low, trying to make it seem like nothing's wrong. I don't want to have someone come to investigate.

"Just to talk!" he insists. "Is that so hard to believe?"

"Yes," I deadpan, looking pointedly at the hidden gun.

"The last time we had a little chat, you mentioned that the country America lives around here, but you didn't remember exactly where."

"Going to blow his house up, too, huh?" I ask bitterly.

"I'd rather not," he answers contemptuously. "I used up most of my supply of C-4. It's a lot harder to get a hold of that you would think." I don't respond, and a few seconds of silence pass between us. "Drink your coffee, darling."

"I'm not your  _darling_ ," I snarl quietly but fiercely. The crony cracks his knuckles threateningly, but Dmitri holds up a hand, and the guy relaxes.

"Okay," he sighs. I'm taken aback; I didn't expect him to agree so quickly. "But you paid for that, and it's getting cold." I look at the cup of black coffee, not going to touch it because a, I hate black coffee, and b, I'm not going to accept a drink from a man that's already drugged me. "Unless," he says, leaning closer, "you didn't buy that for yourself?"

"I'm not touching anything you give me," I growl, pushing the cup away from me.

"All I did was bring it to you," he dismisses. "Did you buy that coffee for yourself? Or for... one of our mutual friends?"

"Me," I answer, grabbing the paper cup. I did this too quickly, so hot coffee sloshes out onto my hand. I hiss and shake it off. Petrakis offers me a napkin, and I snatch it from him with two fingers.

He fixes his blue stare on me. "I don't believe you."

I match his gaze, eyes only slightly watering. "I don't care."

"Whose car is that outside, Isabella?" he asks.

"Mine," I answer, much too fast.

"You're a very bad liar," he tells me. I look away, and he leans in his chair, trying to follow my eyes. "Why are you protecting them, Isabella? They've done nothing but hurt you since you were fourteen!"

I open my mouth to answer, then close it, because I'm not so sure. "They've... helped me," I murmur finally.

"So you want to repay the favor?" Dmitri guesses. "Or is it blind devotion that makes you hide them from me?"

"You're not entitled to their location," I snap.

"Are  _they_  entitled to your loyalty?" he asks, trying to catch my gaze. "Think about it, Isabella. Maybe they helped you when you were younger, but are they  _really_  helping you  _now_?"

"Yes," I blurt without thinking about it.

"And you're  _certain_?"

I let my mouth open, another  _yes_  on my tongue, when I stop to think. They  _say_  they're working on a solution to Zack's and my turning, but they don't have anything to show for it. "...I don't know," I say at last.

"That's right...," he purrs, leaning towards me. "Who's to say that they're not  _for_  this transformation that you're going through?"

"H—how do you—."

"I've known about country doppelgangers for years. All of my children are doppelgangers. My son is in the middle of his transformation, as well."

"You really are Dimah's father," I realize.

"Oh, you've met? I suppose I shouldn't be surprised." He puts his hands on the table and leans forward. "You can help me tremendously, Isabella."

"You blew me up!" I whisper-yell, scooting my chair away from him. "You cut my neck!"

"Yes, I did," he agrees, not fazed by my outburst, "and I'm very sorry. I never wanted you to be caught up in this. But, now that you are... you could prove immeasurably useful to me."

"I—I don't know," I answer, shaking my head.

"I see you're still not convinced. Allow me to... sweeten the pot a little bit, so to speak." He makes his fingers walk towards me on the table. "I know how to break the connection between country and doppelganger."

"How?" I blurt, too eager for some information to keep myself in check.

"Ah, ah, ah," he tuts, wagging a teasing finger. "I need some facts, first."

I can't bring myself to answer. I can't tell him to buzz off, but I can't tell him what he needs to know, either.

He slides a business card across the table towards me. "I'll give you a few days to think about it," he offers, and he gets up, discreetly stashing the pistol in his beltline. "I'll expect your call by, say... the end of the week?"

And, just like that, he and his crony leave me be, sitting numbly in the middle of a crowded Starbucks.

 

 

"That was longer than thirty minutes," America complains when I close the door.

I had to make sure they weren't following me. "There was a... line," I lie. I hand him the Starbucks cup, and he takes a sip.

"Aw," he whines. "Coffee's cold."

"Sorry," I apologize. "I had it in the cup holder next to the air conditioner." Another lie.

"Are you okay?" he asks, frowning. "You seem... in shock."

"What?" I ask, and then I mentally curse myself. "No, I—I just had a little scare, that's all. Um. Deer ran across the road. Had to swerve."

"Oh. Well, I'm glad you didn't hit it," he says.

I start to leave, but I hover in the doorway to his office. "How... close are you to figuring out how to break the connection?" I manage to ask.

"I'm still looking up testimonies from other countries about humans that just aren't quite right. So, nowhere near being close," he sums up. "I'm sorry, Issa."

"Th—that's okay," I manage, and I leave before he can say anything else.

The card in my pocket seems to burn a hole straight through my jeans.

 

 

I sit next to Zack the next day. America got him hooked on Legend of Zelda, so he's playing it right now with Poppy on his lap. After a while, I ask, "...Do you like it here?"

"Yes," he says easily. "I don't have to be afraid here."

"That's good," I respond, but I frown.

"What's wrong?" he asks, noticing. The way he looks at me now reminds me of how he looked at me the night of the crash, after he kissed me. It's not the same panic, but he seems to know something's off.

"Nothing," I lie. "Just... a dilemma."

He presses pause and sets the controller to his side. "Tell me about it."

"I really shouldn't," I dismiss immediately. Then, I stop to think about it. Zack's opinion matters here—this could also benefit him. "Well...."

He scoots closer. "Yes?"

"It's just... you were... maybe still are... willing to kill to learn how to break the connection," I say, my voice low. After checking that the countries aren't near, I continue, "I'm trying to decide how far I'll go."

He frowns. "You know how to break th—."

"No," I assure him, "I don't. Someone does... or... he  _says_  he does.... But he's a horrible person, and I don't want... to be indebted to him."

Zack's frown deepens. "I thought you wanted to die as badly as I do."

"Oh, I do," I say. "It's just... the consequences of trusting a man like that... he may double-cross me...."

"What are the stakes?" he asks seriously.

"I could betray the countries' trust," I hear myself whisper, glancing over my shoulder again. "He  _might_  tell me how to break the connection, but I don't trust his character. ...Or. I could... sit here and wait for the countries to dig something up. I don't like either of my options," I admit.

"Let me call," Zack says immediately.

"You'd  _do_  that?" I ask, slightly unhappy with his answer. "Without thinking about it? What about everything they've done for you?"

"...I'd feel bad about it," he agrees reluctantly. "But finding the ultimate peace is far more important to me than their feelings."

"That's so  _selfish_ ," I hear myself criticize.

He frowns, seeming offended. "Well, America would live longer, wouldn't he? If I were out of the picture?"

"But America's wellbeing wasn't your first priority," I point out.

"Hey, you were considering it, too!"

Canada walks in. "Considering what?"

"Nothing," both of us blurt at once.

He's suspicious, as he should be. "It doesn't  _sound_  like nothing."

Zack sighs. "You should tell him."

I hesitate, then nod. "You're never going to let me out of your sight again...."

 

 

"...Then take a right, and it's the biggest house on the block," I whisper into the phone. "Can't miss it."

"Isabella, you are an absolute Godsend," Petrakis praises. "We'll be there sometime in the near future. Leave a door unlocked for us, okay?"

"Fine," I murmur, resigned to what I'm doing. "Gotta go."

"See you soon."

I hand up on him. "How was that?" I ask my audience.

"Fantastic," America grins. "If we weren't trying to keep you low-profile, I'd put you on a stage, myself."

 

 

We're on our guards for the next few hours. Finally, someone outside triggers America's silent alarm, and he gets the notification on his phone. "Showtime," he announces, but we all pretend that he didn't say anything for a few minutes.

"Zack, let's go play foosball," I say loudly, standing up and grabbing his hand. He nods, and he lets me lead him to the front hall just as the front door creaks open. Dmitri Petrakis is there. He points a gun at Zack, but I hold up my hand and shake my head. "Doppelganger," I explain in a whisper. He nods, and he fixes his gaze past me, at the countries pretending not to notice him in the living room. "Just... don't hurt them," I plead. Petrakis shrugs, an obvious  _we'll see_.

Zack and I wait on the stairs as the chaos breaks out. America and Canada feign surprise, and they fight just enough to make it seem like they've been reasonably overpowered. "You again!" America shouts.

"Me again!" the hunter echoes, grinning.

"Leave the kids out of this!" Canada begs at once.

"I'm glad you brought them up!" Petrakis beams, and he calls over his shoulder, "Isabella! Come here, please!"

I think the countries do a great job of creating a look of horror and betrayal as I take a meek step into the light of the living room. Petrakis throws an arm around my shoulder. "My dear little helper!" he rejoices, and he plants a sloppy kiss on my cheek, slightly scratchy from his 5 o'clock shadow. I'm not afraid of showing my disgust with him—I never was pretending that I liked his idea.

"Sorry," I whisper at the countries.

"How could you?!" America yells. "After everything we've done for you—."

" _Your kind_ ," Petrakis spits, literally, "destroyed this young flower before her prime. She's allowed to take the vengeance she rightfully deserves, against any and every  _country_  she chooses!"

"All I want," I speak up, pushing the hunter's arm away from me, "is to know how to break the connection."

"A reasonable request," he agrees, patting my shoulder. "One that will be granted in due time. After... a few months, maybe?"

"Wh—?!" I protest, wheeling around to face him. "That wasn't part of the deal!"

"I said I'd tell you," he says calmly. "I never said when. Let's get to know each other, Isabella! It'll be fun!"

"No!" I pull away from him. Trying to keep playing the innocent one, I beg, "Please, Mr. Petrakis, all I want to do is break the connection and go back to living my life. Please—I want this over with as soon as possible."

"I need to know you're on my side, first," he reasons. "Besides, you could still be useful to me!"

He reaches out, maybe to stroke my cheek, but Zack steps from the shadows and pushes his arm away from me, fury riding off him in waves. "Tell us what we need to know.  _Now_."

"Oh, dear," he hums, considering Zack. "Your boyfriend has a temper."

I feel my face heat up. "He's not my boyfriend."

"I'll give you one chance to apologize, little boy," Petrakis warns, pointing a finger at Zack. One of his cronies materializes behind him, cracking his knuckles, ready to wrestle him into submission.

"No!" I plead genuinely. This whole plan has backfired, and we all know it. Now, there's just damage control. "Please, don't hurt him!"

"I can take care of myself," Zack mutters, widening his stance in case the man attacks.

"There doesn't need to be any more fighting," I insist, stepping between the men and holding out my hands.

"Ah, an idealist," Petrakis hums. "My son is the same way." He looks at his man and snaps his fingers, and the man reaches for Zack.

"No!" I protest, tugging on the brute's shirt, but he waves me off, focusing on Zack. Petrakis grabs my arm. "Let me go! This wasn't part of the deal!"

He grabs my chin, making me look at him. "Relax, Isabella. Your little friend won't be harmed, unless he asks for it."

I'm crying. He lets go of my face but continues to hold my elbow. "Please, you don't understand— he's been through so much already—," I'm babbling, struggling.

"Don't make me tie you up, too, darling," he threatens.

"Please, just tell me how to break the connection!" I beg desperately, still trying to throw him off me.

He wraps his arm around me, steering me forcefully around the couch, and he makes me look at the countries, handcuffed and kneeling. "You must hate them an awful lot if you were willing to subject them to this fate," he tells me, holding my chin in his hand.

"I don't hate them," I protest tearfully.

"There's your problem," he tells me, and he makes me sit on the couch. "The answer you so desperately want? A pure, unbridled hatred towards your respective nation." He turns towards his other cronies, the ones holding America and Canada down. "Put them in the truck."

 

 

They separate us. There are two trucks outside, and they heave America and Canada into the trunks of the first one. Zack, now tied up and gagged, gets stuffed into the backseat between two large Russian men. They leave me untied, but I'm forced to sit in the front seat between Petrakis and the driver.

I curl into myself, leaning forward to press my face against my knees, and I cry because I don't know what else to do. I can't fight these men. I'm not strong enough, and some part of me is thinking about strategy—if I remain untied, I'll be more useful to Zack and the others.

Petrakis rubs my back. "There, there," he soothes. "It won't be as bad as you think. We'll have fun! You can help me interrogate the nations! We'll make  _them_  hurt. Now, won't that be a nice change from the norm?"

" _No_ ," I make myself answer.

"No?" he echoes. "I  _do_  hope you cooperate with us, Isabella! It would be a shame if we had to hurt you!"

"You'll let me have first crack at her, yes?" the driver asks, reaching out to stroke my hair. "Such a  _pretty_  morsel...."

I actually flinch towards Petrakis. He puts his arm around me. "Now, now, Boris," he scolds. "We're  _friends_  with Isabella! We wouldn't want to  _scare_  her, now would we?"

" _Nyet_ , boss," the driver agrees.

Zack has managed to loosen the duct tape over his lips. "Any of you touch her, and I'll kill you!" he screams, his voice cracking in desperation.

Petrakis laughs heartily as the two men in the backseat wrestle to keep him quiet. "Are you sure he's not your boyfriend?"

I can't bring myself to speak, so I nod. I'm sure.

All of a sudden, their second truck slows down in front of us. "What the hell are they up to?" Petrakis mumbles.

The other truck slams on their brakes without warning, making us rear-end them. I manage to throw my arms in front of my face before the air bags deploy. The sudden friction burns my forearms as we screech to a halt, tossing us around inside.

Dazed, Petrakis asks the driver, "Can we still move?"

The driver tests the gas, and the car moves.

" _Then what the hell are we still doing here_?!" he hisses fiercely, panic in his voice.

The driver throws the car in reverse, backs up, then swerves around the first truck into approaching traffic. Somehow, the driver manages to avoid all of the incoming cars, and he pulls back into the right lane, putting the pedal to the metal.

The other truck slams on their gas, following us. "How did they get free?!" he's asking. "How did they overpower my team?!"

For the next thirty minutes, we enter a high-speed car chase, and we endure hairpin turns and breakneck speeds. Finally, one of the cronies in the backseat suggests, "We should dump the cargo."

Petrakis looks murderous. "You're right." Zack starts yelling as the one behind the passenger seat unbuckles his seatbelt and starts rolling down his window. "Just the boy, though," Petrakis orders. "Isabella knows more, and besides—they'll have to decide which of their pets to save."

"No— _no!"_  I beg, unbuckling my own seatbelt and twisting around to grab a handful of Zack's shirt.

Petrakis grabs my wrist in an iron lock, tearing me away from him, and he restrains me. He doesn't even bother to watch as his men force Zack head-first out the window while the truck goes 100 miles per hour.

I scream as Zack drops to the pavement and rolls out of sight. Petrakis slaps me. " _Silence_!" he roars at me, all semblance of pleasantries gone as his stress levels rise.

" _ZACK_!" I insist, struggling in his grasp.

Petrakis hits me again, and then he snaps his fingers. One of the men in the backseat wraps his meaty hands around my neck and squeezes, immediately cutting off my airflow. "She can't die," I hear the ringleader say over the pounding of blood in my ears. "Don't hold back."

" _Da_ , boss." He tightens his grip.

 

 

 

 

I wake up later, disoriented and in pain. I feel drained, and somehow I know that the man killed me. I wonder how long I've been out, this time.

Unsurprisingly, I'm restrained. I'm lying on my bound hands. Judging by the flexibility of my bonds, I'd say I've been zip-tied. Good. I know how to get out of zip-ties. I'll just... break free once I've gained my strength. Just shifting on the dirty mattress takes a lot out of me.

I try to open my eyes, but I realize I'm blindfolded—pretty thoroughly, too, since I can't even see cracks of light by the bridge of my nose. I'm ungagged, though, so that's good. Maybe they just thought I'd be able to breathe better.

I know I should be panicking, but I'm too fatigued. All I can do is lay there, resting, trying desperately to gather my strength, but it's an uphill battle.

Finally, I start to move. My hands are behind me, so I need to get them in front of me, somehow. I stop when I hear a familiar voice: "Why, good morning!" Dmitri Petrakis greets, sounding surprised and delighted.

I freeze. "How are you feeling?" he asks, and I hear him come closer, feel his weight drop onto the mattress next to me.

"Bad," I croak in a deadpan.

"You've had a week to sleep it off," he tells me.

"A week?" I echo dejectedly. I've been dead/asleep for a week, and the countries haven't found me yet? My faith in them shakes. They're not good trackers.

"You sound miserable, darling. Drink some water." He presses the plastic edge of a disposable water bottle to my lips.

I close my mouth. "Nn-mm," I grunt, shaking my head.

"I don't want to force you, but I will," he warns me, grabbing my chin to steady my head.

What choice do I have? I'm so exhausted. I drink the damn water, and I'm so thirsty that I allow him to tip the entirety of the bottle into my mouth. I manage to hold back my instinctive  _thanks_ , because there's no doubt in my mind that the water is drugged.

"Why are you doing this?" I lament, and my eyes tear up behind the blindfold.

"Just the simple pursuit of knowledge," he responds, and he wipes a trickle of water away from the corner of my mouth.

"I wanna go home...."

"You will," he assures me. "In due time." He puts his hand behind my neck and raises me up into a sitting position, leaning me against his shoulder as he takes out his knife and snaps the zip-tie around my wrists. As he lays me back down, he takes off the blindfold. "There. That's much better, isn't it?"

I don't respond, too scared. I'm still barely strong enough to move, let alone attack like I want to. I can only lay there, numb and quietly crying. Petrakis runs his thumb under my eyes. "There's no need for that," he scolds gently. "I'm not going to hurt you."

I manage to shake my head. "...I don't believe you."

He shrugs. "That's not my problem."

My limbs start to feel like they're full of lead. What little mobility I had vanishes as whatever he drugged me with sets in. I feel myself start crying harder. "Wh—what did you d—do to me?"

"Just a bit of a sedative," he dismisses. "We have about twenty minutes before you'll fall asleep again. In the meantime, how about you answer some questions?"

"I don't wanna," I answer, my words slurring.

"I know you don't." He runs his thumb under my eyes again, wiping away my tears. "Tell me about your relationship with your country. Canada, if I'm not mistaken."

"I used to like him," I find myself answering, the words leaving me without authorization. "And he says he's trying to help me, but he's doing  _such_  a bad job at it that I just don't believe him anymore. We would fight more and more often because he's just  _keeping_  me, not letting me go anywhere or do anything...!"

"It sounds like you dislike him very much," Petrakis points out.

I find myself nodding. "I dislike him, yeah, but I don't  _hate_  him. Deep down, I think I know that he's trying his best to help me." I sniffle, weakly raising my arm to wipe my nose. "...He's very stressed right now. Surprised. I think he knows I'm awake."

"Do you think he'll try to rescue you?"

I nod. "Yeah."

He frowns. "And do you want that?" he asks. "You  _want_  to go back into his clutches?"

I give a half-hearted sigh. "No...," I admit bitterly. "But I don't want to stay here, either."

"Where do you want to go?"

"Home," I answer without needing to think about it. "I want this  _country_  thing to be  _done_  with."

"And your home is in Winnipeg?"

I nod.

"You want to continue living as Sophia Taylor, not Isabella Pryce?"

"What choice do I have?" I lament. "I don't want Germany to come after me again. He already almost found me...."

"Explain?" Petrakis requests.

"M—my friend, Zack—." I want to stop talking—please, don't make me talk about him—shut up, Issa, shut  _up_! "—was kidnapped a few years ago by him an' Japan, and they brainwashed him to try to kill me. He found me in Quebec, but we got the upper hand and took him back."

"Your little boyfriend," he chuckles.

"Not my boyfriend," I slur, shaking my head.

"Do you want him to be?"

"I don't know!" I answer honestly. "Why does this matter?"

"Just trying to get to know you better," he answers, patting my cheek.

The words slip from me before I can stop them: "I don't want to know you."

Petrakis's smile seems to tighten, and he takes my chin and makes me look at him. "It'll do you good to learn," he says dangerously, "to respect me."

Shut up, shut up—don't say it! "Or what?"

His fingers travel from my face to my throat. He hold it tightly enough to make a point, but not enough to exacerbate the existing injury. "I am the only think standing between you and my men. It's been  _ages_  since they've had a new toy." Maintaining eye contact, he smiles, brushing my long hair away from my face. "So, play nice."

 

 

He tries to ask me more questions after that, but the drug is starting to overwhelm me, so he decides to call it a night. I drift into unconsciousness, too exhausted to even cry.

I dream about Canada. He's in his room at America's house, typing furiously on his laptop. America enters without knocking, and Canada flinches, nearly knocking over his mug, and somehow I know that he's drinking an herbal tea. "Any news?" he asks.

"Yeah—," he gasps, and it's obvious that he was just running. "One of my police buddies in South Carolina saw a truck that matched the description."

"South Carolina?" Canada echoes. "What's down there?"

"Maybe a port that they'll be able to smuggle her out of," America suggests. "Maybe a safe house—I don't know—we just have to move fast before we lose this lead."

I feel a sense of warm disbelief, and I'm impressed. It only took them a week. Luckily, I was conked out for pretty much all of it, so I'm not as traumatized as I could be.

Canada drops his mug, and the tea splashes everywhere. "Dude," America whines, but Canada shushes him.

"Issa?" he asks, and he looks around.

"Where?"

"I—I don't know. It's like... I can feel her presence near," Canada explains, waving a dismissive hand. "Issa, are you there?"

_Yeah, I think so.... This may be happening in real time.... I wouldn't say it's impossible that our heads are linked._

"Issa, do you know where you are right now?"

_No_ , I answer regretfully. _I was too drugged and weak to pay much attention to anything._

"That's okay. When you wake up, I want you to try to find out, okay?"

_Okay_ , I agree.

"We're coming for you," he promises, and when he feels my sense of relief, he smiles.

 

 

Someone shakes me. "Time to get up, Isabella," Petrakis sings. "The boat's almost ready to go."

"B—boat?" I manage groggily.

"That's right!" he says cheerily. "We're crossing the Atlantic. We'll land in Spain in a little under a month."

"A month?!" I echo incredulously. "No—no, please, I don't want—."

"It doesn't matter what you want," he tells me, his voice still bright but his hand a clamp on my shoulder. "Get up. Here, I have some clothes for you."

He pushes a bundle of cloth into my arms. "I'll give you five minutes to change." He gets up and leaves.

I sit up on the dirty mattress, looking at the clothes he gave me. I suppose that I've been wearing the same thing for a week, so I shakily make myself change into the button-down white shirt and slacks. I roll up my sleeves because it's hot in here, and I assume it'll be hotter outside.

Petrakis knocks. For all his flaws, like slitting my throat, kidnapping me, and having me strangled, at least he's not violating my privacy. Yet. "C—come in," I manage.

He does. He walks over to me, takes my hand, and makes me stand. I shake immediately, having been bedridden for a week. He steadies me, leading me to a chair in the corner. "Your hair's a mess, darling," he tells me, and he produces a brush and starts to groom me.

"Hey," I complain quietly, leaning away from him.

"Play nice, I said," he reminds me. I gulp and close my eyes, and I continue to let him brush my hair. I haven't had it cut since Japan mangled it when I was fourteen, so it trails past my shoulders. It's still red, too—I had it dyed again sometime in April. "Very good," he praises, being gentle with the knots.

I don't want to ask, but I find myself saying, "...Did you do this for your daughters?"

"Yes, before they abandoned me like my son," he says, sounding calm but yanking on a particularly big knot. I can't hold back a quiet "Ow," of pain, and he softens. "Sorry, darling. I don't like to talk about them."

Don't bring this up— _don't bring this up_ — "But didn't you stab your youngest? Alina?"

He sighs. "I was drunk. It was an accident."

_That's no excuse_ , I find myself thinking.  _She could've died_. Luckily, I manage to hold my tongue.

Petrakis braids my hair. "There," he says as he ties it back. "Now it'll be out of your way."

"Thank you," I say quietly, not wanting to.

"You're welcome." He helps me stand, and he holds on to my elbow as he leads me from my room.

"There's the pretty girl!" one of the bigger men yells as I am walked into what looks like the living room/ kitchen of a shack. Looking out the window, all I see are trees, with a big truck parked outside.

"Sorry for strangling you," another apologizes. I recognize him as the one that threw Zack out the window.

"She's behaving herself, I see," the first says, sounding disappointed.

"Yes, she has," Petrakis confirms, sitting me down next to the third, the biggest man of the group. He has an eyepatch, with a long beard and an octopus tattoo on his bicep. I think he's the one that was sitting behind the driver during the chase. He grunts at me in greeting. I say nothing, too frightened.

"What would the pretty girl like to eat?" the first man asks me, leaning into my personal space.

"I—I'm not hungry," I squeak, hugging my elbows.

He finds this highly amusing. "You've been asleep for a week, girlie."

He's right—my stomach growls. "I—I'm okay," I insist fearfully.

I think this one was the driver, the one who asked if he could have the first crack at me. He hands me a plate of scrambled eggs with sausage. "You're not," he says. "Eat it."

My hands are trembling. "...What...  _else_... is in it?"

"It's not drugged, if that's what you're asking," the second says, sounding affronted. "Like someone would dare to drug  _my_  food."

"It's scrambled eggs, not a culinary masterpiece," the driver scoffs.

"Just eat," the giant next to me grunts. "You will want your strength."

I glance at him and nod meekly, slowly taking small bites. It does make me feel better. "Thank you," I say politely when I'm done.

"We've got ourselves a real troublemaker here, boys," the second says sarcastically as he takes my plate from me.

"Oh, you should've seen her in July, when I got her from the hospital," Petrakis speaks up, pouring an amber liquid into his coffee that I doubt is maple syrup. "What a ball of spitfire and brimstone. Took an extra dose of scopolamine just to calm her down."

"I  _wish_  you'd turn spitfire," the driver says forlornly, touching my braid. I stiffen, closing my eyes. His beard scratches my face as he leans in and whispers, "We'd have  _so_  much fun together."

The man next to me grabs the driver by the back of his shirt and throws him away from me. "Keep it in your pants, Boris," he reprimands. He has the thickest accent of them all. Turning his one-eyed gaze to me, he softens. "Are you okay?"

"N—not really, no," I admit, refusing to relax from my rigid position.

"All will be good," he promises me, patting my shoulder with his giant hand.

"If you say so," I manage.

Boris scowls, straightening the wrinkles in his shirt. He checks his wristwatch. "Time to be leaving," he announces.

"Fine," Petrakis agrees. "Sasha, help Isabella; she's still very weak."

" _Da_ , boss," the man next to me, now dubbed Sasha, says. He stands and offers me his hand. I slowly take it, and he helps me to my feet, balancing me when I wobble. He walks me to the car, opening the door for me and helping me clamber in. I buckle my seatbelt by myself. Sasha sits on my right, and the second man sits on my left. Boris drives, and Petrakis sits shotgun.

We drive in silence for about twenty minutes, and I try to pay attention to my surroundings. We end up at a harbor. Boris parks the truck in the parking lot, and I notice he doesn't stop to pay for a parking ticket. They must be dumping the car here.

"Hold my hand," Petrakis orders me when he helps me out. Silently, reluctantly, I do, watching my feet. I can't tell if it would be better being handcuffed and frog-marched around. I wish my legs would stop shaking; I'm not even on the boat yet. I predict a lot of seasickness in the near future. Through my terror, I have to be grateful that they stopped and grabbed my shoes from America's house before they kidnapped me.

A Russian man greets Petrakis with a firm handshake. "Boss," he says. "Oh, and a new little tracking device?" he asks, turning to me. I look away. "So well-mannered. How long have you had her?"

"Just a week," he answers, squeezing my hand, a silent warning to behave myself.

"Must have been some serious discipline," he hums, grabbing my face to look at me from different angles. I cringe, but I don't react other than that. He grunts in approval. "Got some scars, but she's a perfectly lovely specimen. Congratulations."

"Thank you, Nikolai," Petrakis says. "Is she ready for us?"

" _Da_." Nikolai waves his arm to the ship behind him. The text on the side, barely visible beneath all the barnacles and grime, reads  _The Salty Octopus_. I don't know much about ships, but it looks like a death trap.

"Beautiful," Petrakis sighs, admiring the sloop.

"I'll cut one thousand dollars off of your tab for a half-hour alone with the girl," Nikolai offers, and he brushes my bangs behind my ear. I flinch, unsure if I'm allowed to take a step backwards or not.

"Generous of you," he answers, but his voice sounds colder. "But no. She's... special."

Brown eyes locked hungrily on me, he says, "I'll make it two thousand off for fifteen minutes."

Petrakis takes a half-step in front of me. "I told you no, friend."

Nikolai stares at me for a while longer before he tears his gaze away. "Fine," he agrees, taking a step back.

"Thank you," he answers curtly. "Come now, darling." He tugs me towards the gangway leading up to the dilapidated ship.

I stop walking inches before my feet hit the metal plank. Petrakis turns, looking annoyed. "Something wrong?" he asks, feigning kindness.

He notices the way my eyes are locked on the sloshing water in the dock below. "Ah. Scared of water? Or heights?"

"Both," I manage truthfully, my voice a strained whisper.

"Just don't look down," he orders impatiently, grabbing my upper arm and making me walk.

Somehow, I make it onto the boat. It smells like dead fish and stale saltwater. I practically run to the middle of the deck, trying to find something to hold on to. One of Petrakis' men, the man whose name I don't know yet, laughs at me. "Land-lover," he says. The term is, of course, "landlubber," but I don't care enough to correct him. Plus, I think I'll puke if I open my mouth.

"Come here," Petrakis beckons. Slowly, I obey, wobbling with the waves of the ship. He leads me down into the depths of the ship, through a maze of corridors that I'm too disoriented and sick to pay attention to. He finally stops at a room with a metal door. It's small, but there's a little wooden cot and a tiny table and a tiny chair. A lantern is hanging from the ceiling, unlit. There are no windows in here, so it's dark. "Your room," he tells me, pushing me towards it.

"Is there a bathroom?" I ask, feeling green.

"Right here." He points to the door perpendicular to the door to my room. I push past him, kneel in front of the toilet, and puke.

"Seasick already?" he asks, squatting next to me to hold any loose hair out of my face.

I nod. "Scared," I add in a grunt. "Thanks for not letting him rape me, by the way."

"I promised you wouldn't be hurt as long as you behaved," he reminds me. "I'm a man of my word."

"Then promise me—," I have to stop to retch. "Ugh. Promise me I'll get through this."

He chuckles. "That's up to you. Personally, I believe you're a very strong girl. Stronger than others I've... never mind."

"Others you've... what?" I manage to ask after another upheaval of what little I have in my stomach. "...Kidnapped?"

"Yes," he admits. "I doubt you've met them."

I think back to my encounter with the three Axis lookalikes. Alex mentioned their captor was a tall Russian man with a long nose and blue eyes.... Just... like... Petrakis.... I scoot away from him, realizing. "...Oh my God."

"What?"

"Alex, Sydney, and Rin," I whisper.

"Well, isn't the world a small place!" he says, with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "When's the last time you've seen those little... scamps?"

I shake my head. "Oh my God, you  _raped_  them!"

His smile doesn't fade, but the darkness in his eyes deepen. "I asked you a question,  _darling_ ," he says dangerously.

"N—not for th—three years," I answer truthfully.

"They weren't as well-behaved as you are," he tells me, as if that justifies it.

"They were  _children_!"

He moves faster than I expected, slamming his hand on the floor. I flinch. "Enough! I will not speak of them."

"Rin said she killed you!" I hear myself whisper.

"Yes, she left me for dead," he says bitterly. "But I escaped." He grins again. "Wasn't that lucky?"

Unable to say anything, I nod.

"Are you finished?" he asks me. I think I am, so I nod. He grabs my elbow and makes me stand, and he pulls me back to my new room. "I don't want to hear a peep out of you, are we clear?"

I nod again.

"Good." He shoves me in and closes and locks the door.

The room sways, literally, thrown around on the waves. The scent of dead fish permeates even this far down, and if I had anything left in my stomach, I would vomit again. Somehow, I make my way to the tiny cot and sit down, putting my head between my knees as I attempt to calm myself.

It doesn't work. I take in a shuddering sob.

 

 

Hours pass, and we leave the harbor, sailing away from my last hope of rescue. Deep disdain runs through me towards the countries. They were too late.  _Again_. I've been kidnapped,  _again_. This is, what, my fourth time? I should get one of those punch-cards. Get abducted ten times and win a free ice cream, or something.

I think a lot about what Petrakis said before we left America's house a week ago. He said that I needed hatred towards my country. I mean, I'm not feeling any happy feelings towards him, that's for sure, but my negative emotions must not be strong enough.

I'm too tall for this bed. It's probably only four and a half feet long, so I have to curl up to remain on it fully. That's okay for now, though—it'll become a problem later, when I don't feel like being in the fetal position.

Finally, maybe six hours after Petrakis left me, someone knocks on the door. It's the biggest man, Sasha, I think. "Boss wants to see you," he tells me as he pokes his head in.

I nod, wiping my eyes as I stumble to my feet. I don't have my sea-legs, and I'm still weak from my last murder. Sasha helps me along, preventing me from slamming into the walls every time the ship lurches. If he weren't one of my abductors, I would like him.

He brings me to what looks like a kitchen-dining room combo. Petrakis is doing paperwork at a table in the corner. He doesn't look up when I enter. I glance at Sasha, who gestures towards the empty chair. Slowly, I take a seat.

Five minutes pass. Then ten. I decide against saying anything; it would be better to speak only when spoken to. Finally, Petrakis sets his pen down. "How are you liking it here, Isabella?"

"I'm... not," I answer honestly.

"A shame." He shuffles with his papers, stacking them neatly and putting them in a briefcase. "Are you feeling any better?"

"Not really." Did he take me out of my room to small-talk with me?

"That's too bad." He puts his briefcase on his lap and brings something out—a manila file folder with my name written on its label.

"Wh—where did you get that?!" I blurt upon seeing the report the Axis kept on me during my month of captivity three years ago.

He's not offended by my outburst, which I'm glad about. "From a friend," he says simply. "You've been through quite a lot, haven't you?" he asks, flipping through the pages.

"I don't like to reminisce," I agree.

"See," he says, flipping the page, "after reading this, I don't know why you would still prefer the countries over me!"

"Not all countries are like... that." I wave my hand at the folder. "Plus," I add darkly, "America and Canada haven't slit my throat or had me strangled. Or had my friend thrown from a moving vehicle.

"Very true," he sighs. "I apologize again."

I remain silent, not accepting his apology, but keeping that fact to myself. I'm not sure how he'd react. Not well, probably. "How would you like to help me?" he asks after a while.

"...Do I have a choice?"

"Not really, no," he dismisses. "But you'll like it—I promise. I want to go after the countries that hurt you."

I frown. "...Go after?"

"Yes, go after them. Abduct them like they abducted you.  _Hurt_  them like they hurt you." He puts his elbows on the table separating us. "Wouldn't a little bit of revenge be nice?"

I look away, shaking my head slightly. "...I mean, yeah, it would be great to watch them suffer, but—."

"That's all I need to hear, then," Petrakis decides, interrupting me.

"But they're probably the strongest and most skilled of the countries," I continue, trying to make my point heard. "Even if you do find them, which will be difficult at the least,  _catching_  them and  _keeping_  them will be much,  _much_  harder."

"You'll be my secret weapon."

"I'm not... strong," I point out, raising my spindly arms halfway.

"You're not," he agrees. "You'll help in  _finding_  them. My men and I will take care of the rest."

I press a hand to my forehead, disbelieving. "Let's say I find them. What then?"

"We'll move in with my strongest fighters and a lot of tranquilizers."

"Then?"

"We'll overpower them, and we'll move them to a secure location."

"Then?"

"Then, I'll do my experiments on them. You can help for that, if you'd like."

"Okay, but what  _then_? When you're done testing? What will you do with them?" I make myself look at him. "You know they can't die. Are you going to just... let them go?"

"Of course not. I'm going to  _find_  a way to kill them."

I look away again. "...Do you know what happens to a country when their personification's body is hurt?"

"I don't," he admits. Leaning forward, he adds, "Enlighten me."

"Well, it depends on whether or not they try to speed up their healing process." I think back of that time in Vienna, when England explained this to me. Wiping my nose, I tap the file folder with one finger, as if it might bite me. "Did this mention that the personification of England was with me when they took me the second time?"

"Briefly."

"Well, they took him, too, and they tortured him into insanity. Like, legit, 'I-see-monsters' insanity," I explain. " _Coincidentally_ , that was during that whole fiasco three years ago in the actual landmass. Do you see what I'm getting at?"

"If a country's body is damaged, their people suffer, as well," he sums up.

I nod. "Yeah. So, even though I hate Germany and Japan with all of my being, there are millions of German and Japanese people that haven't done anything wrong."

"You're telling me no?" Petrakis raises an eyebrow, and I sense danger creep into his tone.

Remembering his threat and how eager Boris is to  _have_  me, I shake my head. "No, I—I'll help, I guess," I say quickly. "I just thought you'd like to know the consequences. Obviously, you're okay with millions of people dying?"

He looks down at me, narrowing his eyes. "I don't like your attitude," he tells me.

I shrink back. "Sorry," I murmur.

He glares at me for a moment, then relaxes, his ever-present smile spreading back over his lips. "It's alright, Isabella." He looks at me, and then at Sasha, still hovering stoically by the kitchen. "Take her back to her room." 

" _Da_ , boss." 


End file.
